Together
by previouslysane
Summary: Sherlock and John. They meet earlier on in their lives and complement each other beautifully. No one could dispute this. After graduation, things turn to the sinister. They're ripped apart at the seams. What will it take for them to be together again?
1. Chapter 1

The classroom was just barely alive, the murmurings of the few students who were actually awake carried through the room like a soft breeze. It was far too early in John's opinion, to be up at all. It was the first day after winter break, and it was difficult to readjust to school hours. John was slouching in his chair, counting down the minutes until study hall where he could actually catch an extra hour of sleep when _he_ walked in.

The ambient noises in the room trickled to a halt as everyone turned to stare at the newcomer. He was tall, languid and stood straight-backed with confidence. He had a frock of curly ink-black hair that tickled his prominent cheekbones. His skin was incredibly pale save for the pink tinge on his nose and cheekbones. And then his eyes. John only caught a glimpse of them before the stranger took the seat in the far back corner next to the window, but they made a significant impression in John's mind. They were ice. They were ice with depths black pinpricks in their center. The muttering started up once again, most likely to discuss the newcomer. John really couldn't help himself.

"Hey… Robert." John leaned over to the kid sitting in front of him. "Rob… who's the new guy?"

"I don't know, mate." Robert shrugged. "He's just a guy." John leaned back and glanced over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the new kid. The twinge on his cheeks was draining but it didn't make him any less pale. He stared out of the window with seeming intent. The tips of his fingers were pressed together right under his nose as though he were deep in concentration. He made a sudden movement and locked eyes with John momentarily. John was shocked but he didn't break eye contact immediately. The other boy broke the eye contact to watch as a small group of girls approached him.

"Hello!" Molly was blushing furiously. "I'm Molly Hooper. You must be new here."

The boy pursed his lips as though to bite back a snide comment. "It appears I am. Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you posh or something?" Sally scoffed, her arms crossed over her chest.

He looked over her quickly, as though he were processing everything about her appearance. He paused before replying.

"Avid jogger, two dogs, four puppies. Your mother is a smoker and you wish she would stop and your father works entirely too much for him to notice that it bothers you. Older sister or cousin, someone you look up to and care about as though she were your mother. But it looks like she's been gone for more than a few months now so you've been… letting your frustrations out by seeing various boys around school." Sally's face was stricken with horror, Molly's eyes wide in shock. Everyone had hushed and listened to him. "You present yourself as single because you're sleeping with someone who's in a relationship. You might want to break it off, he's not going to choose you over her." He turned away from her and stared again out the window. Sally struggled to say something, but couldn't seem to get her jaw to work. John found that he was the only one in the classroom to have a bit of a smile on his shocked face. Everyone looked affronted. If what Sherlock said was true, then he was a complete genius. How could someone be offended by intellect?

"What are you some sort stalker pervert?" She shrieked. "How the bloody hell could you know all of that?"

"I observed." Sherlock murmured, his mind a thousand thoughts ahead and a million miles away.

"You're a freak!" She snarled. "No one should know that much about a person just by looking at them!"

"It's almost literally written all over you." He brushed off. "I don't know your name. I'll delete the information almost immediately, if that's of any consolation."

She snorted in disgust and shook her head, walking away.

That morning really set the tone for what was to come of Sherlock. He was either known as Freak or that Holmes kid. He was given a wide berth while walking through the halls and while in the library. No one wanted to get too close to him, for fear he may try and slip inside their heads and spill out its contents. Except, of course. John.

John had what he called "situational friends". Friends he would talk to during that class period. People who would laugh mildly at a joke he made at lunch once or twice. People liked John Watson, but they didn't really want to be close friends with him. And John was okay with that because the feeling in general was mutual. He'd never wanted to seek out someone and try to become their friend. Or if he had, it had been so long ago and with such disastrous results that he repressed the memory and told himself subconsciously that it was better to stay in his corner and let others come to him. Somehow, John thought that the latter was more likely. But John couldn't ignore Sherlock, as much as he tried. Sherlock intrigued John, with almost everything he did. Though he did seem irritating sometimes, John still wanted to reach out and speak to Sherlock. At least once. To see if the man was capable of having friends. And maybe John wanted to see if he was capable of truly being one.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! Alright, this is a pretty big story that I've been working on for some time. Yes, it is a High School AU for a while, but I really enjoyed writing it and I'm going to try and actually finish this one!<strong>

**Sherlock has been somewhat of an emotional ride for me, and I just wanted to commemorate that by posting a really really really really long fanfiction (as it stands right now, it's 25,000 words ahhh) **

**by the time this whole fic comes out Reichenbach will be out and I'll be sobbing endlessly through tears**

**oh right**

**i mean what oh RIGHT**

**STORY **

**anyway I hope you enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

John decided just to sit across from Sherlock at lunch one day. He was texting someone and hardly noticed John's presence.

"Hello." John said evenly. Sherlock looked over his phone lazily and then back to it.

"I'm not going to read you your fortune." Sherlock said flippantly.

"What?" John frowned. "I was just… sitting down is all."

"You watch me all the time." Sherlock said, sliding his phone in his jacket pocket. For a high school junior, Sherlock dressed very nicely. "I notice you. You're not being subtle."

"It didn't bother me that you noticed." John shrugged. "I figured you would notice anyway."

Sherlock's forehead creased in the tiniest of frowns before brushing it off. "Well what do you want. You must be here for a reason."

"No reason. I just wanted to sit here."

"You have other friends."

"They won't miss me."

"So you consider them friends, then?"

"I don't have a better word for them." John admitted. "Why are you interested in my definition of friends?"

"Because they aren't really your friends, are they, Waston?"

"Why are you concerned with my lack of friends, Holmes?" John said.

"Because it doesn't make sense why you're over here. Why I intrigue you. You have plenty of options—and yet you choose to be friendless, like I do. Why would you seek me out?"

John shrugged and stared Sherlock in the eye.

"Gut feeling." John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

"Human intuition guiding actions again—yes certainly, nothing could go wrong—"

"Oh, I was almost certain that things would go wrong from the get go." John said. "You seem irritating. Self-righteous, smug and over-confident to the point of arrogance."

"Most of those were synonyms."

"However—" John cut him off. "You also seem brilliant and shut off. As though you're hiding something or holding some part of you back. And for some reason I want to see that side."

"And what makes you worthy, John Watson?" Sherlock crossed his arms. John stood.

"I'm not entirely certain I am, your grace." He smirked. "But you fascinate me. And I know I fascinate you because while you were noticing me noticing you… I was noticing you noticing me." John slung his bag over his shoulder. "And by the way, I used all of those synonyms because they were necessary. You seem really pretentious, Sherlock, you do."

"Well I am." He said, unable to hide the smallest of smiles. John's eyebrows raised.

"Was that a smile I saw?" John smirked. "Thought it would shatter that face."

Sherlock's face smoothed again. "Don't mistake my amusement in your foolishness for anything but what it is." Sherlock's face hardened. "I don't understand the intent of this conversation."

John smiled and shrugged as he shifted his bag to a more comfortable position. "Neither do I. And I think that's the point."

It was two weeks before John and Sherlock spoke again. John had made a point of not looking at him, not regarding him from across the cafeteria, even when he had an inkling that it was safe to do so. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, though. Sometimes he could feel the chill from Sherlock's eyes rest on the back of his neck. He would have to steel himself to not look at him, and resort to smirking at the papers in front of him. They had three classes together. English, History and Chemistry. Sherlock took elective biology and several other sciences. He was known as something of a protegee to the teachers of the science department. History, however, was not Sherlock's strong suit. He completely blew it off as a waste of his time.

"It's a complete waste of time." Sherlock muttered to himself one day as Mr. Prescott gave a lecture on Roman culture. "Who cares about these people?"

John was always seated near Sherlock in class because others complained about being close to Sherlock to the teacher, saying that they all had a problem with him. John never complained, and so in all three of the classes he had with Sherlock, he sat the closest to him.

"Sherlock, I don't understand." Mr. Prescott said once he gave back essays. "You excel at History. Why do you hate it so much?"

"No, I don't excel at it, I memorize it for the time that it's needed, prattle it back to you and then delete it almost immediately afterwards. It's all just dates and memories. We're looking back at people who did important things instead of doing important things ourselves." Sherlock huffed. "What more am I to learn of the past when there is plenty of future to be created?"

John couldn't help but to look back at Sherlock. Mr. Prescott had no response for Sherlock but clenched his jaw and walked on. John met Sherlock's eyes for a moment and saw the restless being that lay behind his cold, careless mask.

John blinked a few times before smiling a tiny bit and turning around. He couldn't recognize the specific emotion that played on Sherlock's face, but he knew that it was something… childish. Something very innocent and vulnerable. In a second it had gone, but that didn't change that it had been there in the first place.

The bell rang for class to be dismissed and John left without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>In so many High School!AUs John is always the one who chases mindlessly after Sherlock. And while it's not completely OOC, I just like to see John being the one chased. or something. Yes, so... they meet!<strong>

**I'm going to post three chapters for today and then try and post one chapter a week. Let's see how that goes. Review if you like it and review if you don't!**

**or something**


	3. Chapter 3

Two more days went on like this, Sherlock causing scenes in the classrooms and after each one, he attempted to catch John's eye. He set his work bench alive with a green fire, he would perform several Shakespearean monologues. He would bait Mr. Prescott and get into fantastic rows with him, at the end making a marvelous statement to science and innovation. John didn't rise to the occasion once. One day after a particularly passionate monologue from Othello in front of the entire English class, most of which John spent finishing up his questions that were due in French next period, Sherlock slammed his book on John's desk. John took a sharp breath in, but steadied himself, failing to repress a smile. He didn't look up at Sherlock, but he could feel Sherlock's intense stare. Nothing was said. After a few beats, he swept John's books to the floor and muttered,

"I don't even know why—you're just—" and shook his head and left the classroom. John finally looked up, his whole face split in a fantastic smile. The whole classroom was looking at him in surprise. Even Mrs. Dunsworth was speechless with shock. John slid himself to the floor and started picking up his books and things. Mrs. Dunsworth finally got her wits about her and picked up where the class left off.

John didn't go to lunch that day, he found himself sitting in the library, thumbing through a few books.

"Your name is John Hamish Watson, you played rugby until your shoulder was injured. Your father is in the Army and you respect him to the point of mimicking. You excelled in Biology and have an overwhelming desire to help others so it's said that you're looking into being a doctor—what sort of doctor, you don't know yet. You're a younger sibling and love your older sister even if she gets to be annoying."

John looked up and finally met Sherlock's eyes. A sense of ease washed over Sherlock, John could see his muscles relaxing.

"Hello to you too."

"That's it, you've gotten what you wanted now leave me alone."

"Leave _you _alone?" John raised his eyebrows. "I sat down with you once for lunch. Once. Ever since then I haven't talked to or even looked at you."

"Yes, but you're doing it on purpose."

"And if I am?"

"It doesn't matter now, I told you all you want about yourself now leave me alone."

"That's not what I wanted. I don't really want anything."

"Liar."

"Okay, we'll make things conversational." John said. "Take apart someone in this room. Anyone. And then tell me how you know."

Sherlock glared at John and turned away.

"There. The girl with the purple shirt." Sherlock muttered. "Right handed. Do you see, by the way she crosses her arms? One generally crosses their arms with their dominant hand tucked into their body." Sherlock muttered. "She's got a cat. Two cats. Two types of cat fur in her shirt and a scratch on her forearm. Her shoes say that she doesn't run, the soles of her shoes are worn down but only with age, not with overuse. That's also suggesting that those are her shoes in the first place. Do you see how she color-coordinates her shirt with her bag and her hair tie? Why would a girl like that wear sneakers in the first place? Her intended shoes could have been stolen, but more likely they've gotten too small for her. The shoes she's wearing aren't hers, seeing as they are a bit big for her. You don't have older shoes that are too big for you, you borrow them from someone else. Why does she need new shoes? Her feet have been swelling and growing. She's not used to it yet, as can be seen by her gait. Her clothes suggest a perfect fit, an outfit that she's had for some time, but do you see how the last two buttons are taking a minor strain from her lower stomach? Pregnant. It's hard to tell by simply looking at her stomach, she could be gaining weight or something of the similar, but by the shoes, the hair and the nails, you can conclusively agree that she's pregnant. I doubt she even knows it yet."

"Hang on—hair and nails?"

"Certainly. She's just gotten a new haircut, shocked at how healthy her hair and nails have gotten. She painted her nails herself, but you can tell by the excess polish on either side of the cuticle that she doesn't do it often. She doesn't like to bring attention to either her hair or her nails until recently when they suddenly started to get nicer. It's another effect that pregnancy has on a woman." Sherlock shrugged.

"Brilliant." He breathed.

Sherlock gave a start. "Really?"

"Absolutely!" John shook his head. "How do you do that?"

"I simply observe."

"I guess it doesn't all connect in our heads like it does with you. We see all of the puzzle pieces but you put them together." John said. "You're a bloody genius."

Sherlock was at a loss for words. "I don't understand you, John Watson." Sherlock said. "I really don't."

"Why?"

"Because you… you don't…"

"I don't treat you like a freak?"

Sherlock simply nodded his head. And there was that tiny emotion flicking across Sherlock's face again. That little emotion he saw a week ago in Mr. Prescott's room. John could pinpoint it now. It was a childish longing. John could feel Sherlock's eyes sweep all over him.

"Well." John clasped his hands together and grabbed his books. "If that's all you wanted—"

"Wait—" Sherlock grabbed John's wrist as he passed him. "Please. Don't do this again."

"Do what?" John said innocently.

"Oh don't play stupid." Sherlock snapped. "It's painfully obvious that you have some sort of intrigue in me, and I can't lie and say that I can't find some sort of interest in you. You're… different… and I don't know _how._"

"Well then, figure it out, Mr. Holmes." John said. "First things first. When you want to talk to me, just bloody speak to me. Don't try and create elaborate displays to engage my interest. If you want to start a conversation, then start it. I'll do the same. Easy enough, right?"

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not." John said exasperatedly. "Just… talk to me occasionally. Ask me questions. I don't know how this friends thing is supposed to work. I know how to speak to people. I know how to make people chuckle at my repeated jokes. I think we should drop the word 'friend' from our vocabulary because this relationship is not likely to compare to the general example of friendship." Sherlock's eyes were wide. "Do you agree?"

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"Okay." John nodded. "Good."

"This isn't some practical joke, is it?"

"Oh come on, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and felt Sherlock react to the use of his name. "You would be able to sniff something like that out in an instant." Sherlock dropped John's wrist and John walked out of the library. Sherlock stared at him until he was out of view. For some time later, he stared at the spot that John had last been seen. He knew that he shouldn't want to chase after John, and it took every ounce of determination to stay seated in that library.

The next day, Sherlock took the seat next to John in English.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said brightly. His eyes twinkled, and John blinked in surprise. He was still somewhat mesmerized by Sherlock's face.

"Hello, Sherlock." John said.

"Have you given thought to what sort of doctor you plan on becoming?" Sherlock said.

"Well, I wanted to go into the army." John said. "Like my dad. So I don't think that this whole doctor thing is going to pan out."

"They do have doctors in the army, John." Sherlock said.

"It was more of a passing fantasy." John shrugged. "I was always going to go into the army."

"Be an army doctor. You'll excel quickly."

"And you know this?"

"I have no doubt." Sherlock said.

"And you?" John said. "Some sort of chemist, I expect."

"I want to study chemistry, yes, but the thought of being stuck in a lab for hours just does not appeal to me. I want to be out there."

"You should be a private detective or something." John said. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Oh come on. Those skills? Being able to gather so much information about a person by seeing such little details about them? It's fantastic."

"People only use private detectives to sort out petty marriage disputes." Sherlock huffed. "It sounds unbearably dull."

"I bet you could catch a killer."

"I'm not a policeman." Sherlock scoffed.

"Well you've got a ways to figure out what you really want to be." John shrugged. "Until then, continue to excel in the sciences and what you love." "I don't love anything." Sherlock murmured as a sort of auto-response.

"Now that's not true." John said. "Everyone loves something."

Sherlock gave a wry smile. "Not me. Can't you see? I've got no emotion."

"Do you really believe that?" John said.

"As years of witness accounts allude to nothing but that statement—"

"Or you ignore anyone who tries to dispute you. You have emotions, Sherlock. You just hate them."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, is that the sort of doctor you've chosen to be?" He drawled. "A psychologist?"

"Fine, fine. I'll lay off."

"I doubt it."

"If you doubt it, then I won't lay off." John said simply. Sherlock glared at him.

"Fine. Please stop psychoanalyzing me, John."

"Alright. As long as you stop trying to hate being happy with other people."

"Are there always so many conditions with friendship?"

"This isn't friendship." John clarified.

"What is it, then?" Sherlock said.

"We're not friends yet. We're… somewhere before that." John said, shuffling through his papers.

"Am I allowed to drop out of this… semi-friendship whenever I'd like?"

"Of course. I don't dictate everything you do."

"Really?" Sherlock said, smirking. "You just set a few conditions. Seems to me like you're trying to control me."

"And you set one as well, it's not like we're going anywhere with it!" John laughed. "Calm down, Sherlock."

The bell rang for first period. Sherlock grabbed his books and walked beside John to the door.

"We've got English together." John said.

Sherlock sighed pointedly. "Don't point out the obvious." He said. "It irritates me to no end."

"So pointing out the obvious irritates you?" John said, unable to keep a straight face. Sherlock didn't see this and gritted his teeth.

"Yes, and so does repetition."

"So what about redundancy?" John said.

Sherlock stopped and turned to face John. "Are you being intentionally obtuse—" Sherlock caught the wide smile on John's face. Sherlock blinked before smiling himself.

"All I'm saying is that the sky is blue." John nodded seriously. "It's blue, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, we understand." Sherlock bit his lip to try and hide his amusement. "You're all well and clever—"

John pointed. "Her shirt is orange—"

"Alright, John—"

"His hair is brown!"

"Oh my god…" Sherlock was half pushing, half pulling John to their next class. John was cackling. People were staring; there was no doubt about it. John was having a time acting like a four year old that had just discovered the world and needed to point out everything he saw as the most important thing he'd ever seen. He also loved the look on Sherlock's face as he tried to purge all of his emotions but couldn't.

John walked to his seat still giggling a little bit and Sherlock regarding him with a small smile.

"Are you going to read the rest of Othello?" John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Come now, John. There's not any need to now."

"Why did you want to catch my attention so badly?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock said seriously. "Though it's not bad that I did, is it?"

"Definitely not."

Mrs. Dunsworth caught sight of Sherlock and John and frowned slightly. She approached them.

"Have you boys worked out your differences, then?"

"Yes." Sherlock said simply, not even looking at her.

"Everything is fine, Mrs. Dunsworth." John said sincerely. "I'm sorry about the scene Sherlock made."

"Don't apologize for me, I'm not your child."

"Yes, but you certainly acted like one yesterday, didn't you?" John muttered.

"You were being infuriating! How was I supposed to react—"

"I think the whole 'throwing my books to the floor like a frustrated toddler' angle didn't go over well."

"As long as there won't be a repeat, boys." Mrs. Dunsworth said, a twinge of amusement in her voice. "The lovers' spats are in our tragedies, not our classroom."

John stopped cold and blinked up at her.

"What? No we're not—" John blustered to clarify, but Mrs. Dunsworth had already gone back to the front of the room. John looked back at Sherlock. He was leaning back in his chair and picking at his fingernails. He seemed unperturbed by Mrs. Dunsworth's assumption, or he hadn't heard it.

"What?" Sherlock said. "What is it, what are you thinking?"

John felt attacked by his words and answered, "Nothing." He chuckled. "You know the instant that someone asks me that question, my mind is wiped completely blank of anything I could've been thinking."

"Your mind can be wiped completely blank from thinking?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"No, just… just for a moment, when that question is posed. I don't know how to respond."

"Well that's different." Sherlock scoffed. He glanced over at John, his eyes glinting in the muted light. "You fascinate me."

"Likewise." John said. Though he couldn't think for a minute why someone as ordinary as him could fascinate a genius like Sherlock. He was inclined to keep it to himself, though. He didn't want to lose Sherlock's interest while he had it.

Mrs. Dunsworth got to the front of the class and called their attention.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay okay<strong>

**Long chapter, I know but I couldn't figure out where to stop. **

**I just wanted them to establish their friendship. I hope you like it so far! I'll post some next week. Or tomorrow. I don't know. Depends on the feedback tbch**

**COOL**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John both discovered that it was easy to speak to each other. Conversation came naturally, and even when it didn't the silence they shared was comfortable. It was almost as if they'd been friends for years, and it was only their first official week of talking to each other.

"You know what I don't understand?" Sherlock said after a comfortable silence at lunch.

"A great deal more and a great deal less than the rest of us?" John replied.

"I—what do you mean by 'a great deal more'?"

"You told me not to psychoanalyze you."

"I'm not asking you to psychoanalyze me, I'm asking you to clarify your meaning." Sherlock said.

"You know worlds about the sciences and a lot about human behavior, but you know nothing of human interaction and social customs. So whatever it is you're about to say you don't understand probably has to do with some social norm."

"You're… not incorrect."

"Double negative?"

"It was required."

"Why?" John looked up at Sherlock in amusement before reeling slightly under the intense gaze that Sherlock had him under.

"You bother me."

"If I bother you, then walk away."

"You're so confident that I won't." Sherlock smirked.

"Or if you do, you'll come back." John said.

"Why?"

John rolled his head in his shrug. "Because you bother me too."

Sherlock gave a small start before licking his teeth and unable to hold back a small giggle. The sound was deep and beautiful and fantastic and John couldn't help but to smile along.

Sherlock and John had dropped into place together so seamlessly that the people around them couldn't remember a time when one wasn't seen without the other. They were two connecting pieces of a completely different puzzle. It had been only three weeks since their first official week of 'speaking to each other', but it had felt like years. John could always be seen tailing after Sherlock, and just as easily Sherlock could be seen chasing after John. Both seemed so codependent on each other. They were certainly each other's main source of happiness.

* * *

><p><strong>This was a little short something that I wanted to throw in there. Sometimes I just write these conversations that they have, but I have nowhere to put them. I'm posting two chapters today! Spoiled~<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stood behind the school, and John approached him. John had received a text from Sherlock to meet him here, and so here he was.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to ask you something."

"You could've done so in that sentence." John said.

"I'm serious, John." Sherlock said, his lips barely moving. John sobered up.

"Is everything alright?" He took a step towards Sherlock.

"I've been staying with my brother, and he and I had a row. He more or less kicked me out of the flat."

"If you're going to ask to stay with me, it's absolutely no problem." John said.

Sherlock relaxed noticeably and took a step towards John, almost as if he were about to hug him.

"It's of no trouble right? You swear to it?"

"Sherlock! There's a little thing called a sleepover. Plenty of people have them."

"I—Oh." Sherlock said. "I just didn't know you were that sort of person."

"I'm not, generally. But you need a place to sleep and I'm more than willing to let you stay over."

"It won't be for long, I swear."

"It will be as long as you need it to be." John said. He frowned a little before closing his eyes, exasperated. Sherlock was wearing the same clothes that he had on yesterday.

"When did this happen?"

"About 7:30 last night." Sherlock admitted, his lips barely moving.

John sighed and rubbed his face. "You were texting me all last night! Why didn't you ask then?"

"I… I felt it imposing."

"When do you care about imposing?"

"I don't like bothering you for no reason." Sherlock shrugged. The first bell rang inside.

"Look, I hope that you would let me in your house if I were kicked out."

"Instantly."

"That's what I would do for you, Sherlock." John said.

"You're irritated with me." Sherlock stated.

"Yes." John bristled. "But not because you did anything wrong, but because you endangered yourself instead of just talking to me!"

"Oh." Sherlock said.

"Look, you need a shower and this would be my first absence. My mum will understand."

Sherlock gave short titter of exhausted laughter and followed John to his car. It wasn't a nice car. It was his father's. Sherlock collapsed on the passenger side of the car and leaned the seat back.

"Oy!" John shouted. "Be careful! This car is old!"

"Yes, I observed." Sherlock yawned.

"Where did you stay last night?" John asked dropping into the driver's seat and starting the car.

"Tech lab." Sherlock replied, his eyes closed.

"In school?"

"It's the only tech lab I'm aware of." Sherlock shrugged. John let the conversation drop because Sherlock sounded extremely tired. John was still irritated that Sherlock thought it would be rude to ask to stay over at his home. Sometimes Sherlock could be so incredibly obtuse on certain things. John pulled into the driveway and breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of cars in front of his house. He helped the barely conscious Sherlock to his feet and through the front doors. John led him to his room and Sherlock collapsed on John's bed. John shook his head and chuckled. He closed the door and left to go make a proper breakfast for himself.

John. That was the first thought that ran through Sherlock's head as he slowly came to consciousness. His delicious scent was thick in Sherlock's nose. Sherlock blinked twice more and realized that he was not in Mycroft's flat. It took his brain a few good minutes to reboot. He was in John's room, curled tight under John's duvets. He didn't want to leave the smell and the warmth. He caught sight of the window. Noon. He'd slept for a good five hours. Sherlock yawned once more before digging his head into the pillow underneath him and tried to find sleep again.

John knocked on the door and walked in, gently. Sherlock squirmed away from John and towards the wall.

"Ah. You're awake. I've made lunch. I figured you'd want to be able to sleep tonight, so I thought that I should wake you up."

Sherlock grumbled as a response.

"Get on up, then." John said, grabbing Sherlock's arm. "It's getting cold."

"What did you make?" Sherlock blinked, sitting up. He wrapped the thick comforter over his messy head and pulled the rest of the blanket tight around his face. John chuckled at how adorable he was.

"Just some grilled cheese with tomato soup. I didn't know if you were a vegetarian or not."

"What if I were vegan?"

"I've seen you eat cheese before." John said. "You had a bite of my pizza."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock shook his head as though it were obvious. Sherlock still looked incredibly tired. "Okay." Sherlock stood, the blankets still tight around his neck and face, but leaving his curly black hair ruffled. He slouched out of the room and made his way to the kitchen where John had set up two plates.

John was right behind Sherlock, his hands in his pockets, watching with amusement. Sherlock plopped down and just tore into his sandwich. John's eyes widened.

"Slow down—slow down!" John said. "You'll give yourself a stomachache!"

"Oh…" Sherlock said. He stopped and looked at the three quarters of a sandwich he had left. He looked at John expectantly. John chuckled and sat down across from Sherlock. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Sherlock took a bite almost immediately afterwards.

"Sherlock, when's the last time you've slept?"

"Two, three days?" Sherlock replied. He raised his eyebrows. "A tomato?"

"What, do you not like tomatoes?" John said.

"No… I do like tomatoes. I think."

John sighed. "When's the last time you've properly eaten?"

"I… hm." Sherlock frowned. "Probably around the last time I slept. I hate to be a slave to these stupid primitive functions like sleeping and… and eating."

"Sherlock, it's not an urge it's a necessity!" John sighed. "Sleeping recharges a body and eating fuels it! Whether you like it or not, that brilliant brain of yours needs the body its in to move around. You have to treat it right."

"Yes, doctor." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But a third of my life that could be spent doing other things are spent sleeping! How pointless does that seem?"

"It doesn't seem pointless when you pass out from sleep deprivation. And the brain can't function properly if it hasn't had time to go into REM sleep, Sherlock. Surely you know this."

"I don't… read into medical texts."

"Not ones about sleeping or eating because you do neither. Or you binge on both."

"Not true. Usually when I sleep I do it in short accidental bouts." Sherlock said, finishing off his sandwich.

John looked down at his sandwich and saw he had about a quarter of the sandwich left.

"Did you mimick my bites to know the appropriate speed at which to eat a sandwich?" John closed his eyes.

"You seemed offended by my normal eating habits, so yes. I did." Sherlock turned to his soup. John was glad that he heated it incredibly hot. Sherlock would have to eat it slowly.

"So what did you and your brother argue about?" John said. Sherlock pursed his lips and brought a spoonful of tomato soup wordlessly up to them. He shifted the blankets so they were tighter around him.

"He thinks I'm acting childish." Sherlock said finally. "We've never gotten on, he and I."

"Childish about what? And why do you live with your brother anyway?"

"I had an argument with my parents and Mycroft thinks that I'm wrong. I live with my brother because I left my parents' house."

John could tell by the bitter hiss that accompanied Sherlock's words that he had trodden into delicate territory. John was quiet for a little bit as he tried to phrase his next question right.

"What… what would make _you _leave a fight without first winning it?" John inquired.

"Let's just say…" Sherlock slurped the soup. "A boxer knows when he's outmatched." He tried to smile wryly but it just turned into a grimace.

"Do you do any sports?" John said after a while. Sherlock looked up, a smile on his face again.

"MMA." Sherlock said. "Black belt in Jujitsu, Karate and Tae Kwon Do."

"Really?" John said. He hadn't expected Sherlock to actually respond. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look that clearly said _I am not repeating myself. _John sighed and returned it with a look that said _I don't expect you to. _"How often do you spar?"

"As often as possible." Sherlock said. "I had a fantastic instructor back at the estate—" Sherlock closed his eyes. He spoke too much. He expected John to say something, but he didn't. Sherlock continued tentatively. "—and of course the several opponents that naturally presented themselves at school."

"You used your bullies as opportunities to practice your fighting skills?" John's smile was wide.

"Certainly." Sherlock said. "Until I made a reputation for myself and no one attempted to attack me anymore." He said this morosely as though he wished that people would challenge him more.

"Well I'm sorry that people don't try and punch you on a daily basis."

"What's done is done." Sherlock shrugged, not hearing the sarcasm in John's tone. He finished the soup and stood. He shrugged the blanket off of himself. Only when the blanket hit the floor did Sherlock fully realize that he wasn't wearing pants.

"Oh…" He murmured and quickly pulled the blanket about himself again.

"Yeah. I heard you moving around in your sleep. You undressed yourself in your sleep, do you know that?"

"I knew it at one point but I deleted it. I usually delete things I know about my sleeping or eating patterns." Sherlock pulled the blankets tighter around himself.

"Oh come on, you're not self-conscious are you?" John said. "Not the great Sherlock Holmes."

"Not in the slightest. But—I've been told from a very young age not to walk around the house in my underwear. I… got in a considerable amount of trouble for it."

"I don't mind." John shrugged. "I do it all the time. Except… you know… I wear boxers."

"I'm wearing briefs." Sherlock muttered, though his grip on the blankets loosened.

"And you're wearing a shirt." John shrugged. He felt as though he might be crossing a line of comfortable that he may not be able to cross back over. What was he _doing?_ He was telling Sherlock that it was alright to walk around his house with just his underwear? "But only when it's just the two of us. You know. Friends usually don't mind if they're around each other in their underwear." John tried to reason. But something about that didn't sound entirely right. But there was something about the sight of Sherlock's bum that kept egging him on. Also, Sherlock being closed off about something made him uneasy.

Sherlock grinned magnificently and dropped the blanket. The cream white of his strong thighs leading to the swell of his behind covered in a tight, deep blue underwear brought a flush to John's cheeks. This was his best friend! He shouldn't be ogling Sherlock's… long, pale legs or his tight, round bottom. Sherlock turned around to face him and even though John only caught a glimpse before forcing himself to turn away, Sherlock had a considerable bulge between his legs.

"You see, now I'm much more comfortable. This house is incredibly warm, you know. You may just turn the heating down a few degrees." John was pulling at the neck of his jumper. He was inclined to agree. Sherlock walked away towards the television and John pulled off his jumper. Harry was the gay one! Harry! Not him! The slight bulge in his pants disagreed. Maybe he should ask Sherlock to put his pants back on.

"John! We should watch a movie!"

"But you hate movies." John called back. He wasn't shocked to find himself slightly out of breath.

"Yes but you don't. I hate seeing that condescending look that you give me whenever you make a stupid pop culture reference." Sherlock brushed a hand. "Also could you bring me that blanket? It's colder over here than I'd expected." "Yeah, that'd be the window." John said, chuckling. It was a moment of confusion. Certainly everyone had those moments in their lives. Sherlock looked back at him over the edge of the couch, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his nose resting on the edge of the couch, his hands clutching the pillow. He looked very much like a little kitten begging for attention. It was probably at that moment that John Watson decided that wherever his heart took him, he would follow it.

* * *

><p><strong>So yes. Sherlock living with John. I don't know why I'm summarizing the text you just read. I personally feel that Sherlock is completely open about his physical side and whatever is most comfortable for him, he does. That's why Sherlock being self-conscious about physical appearances or social norms just doesn't sit pretty in my noggin.<strong>

**-goal: Use phrase "sit pretty in my noggin"**

**-goal: achieved**

**edit: I THOUGHT I CHANGED THE SPELLING OF TAE KWON DO BUT I DIDN'T And now I did good.**


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm getting something to drink, could you pause it?" Sherlock muttered about an hour and a half later. "I think I'm actually starting to understand the appeal in things like this." Sherlock threw the blanket off of himself and walked to the kitchen in his underwear.

"So you're a fan of Lord of the Rings, then?"

"I wouldn't say that I'm a fan of it. I'll create a new section in my head about pop culture things that you like." Sherlock said. John heard the hiss and pop of a new can of soda opening. "I'll put the basic details of this story in there."

"There are two more."

"Hell." Sherlock grumbled. "I've only got so much room."

"What's that?" John called. "Are you saying you'd like to watch Doctor Who with me?"

"Is that another movie?"

"It's an incredibly popular television show. It's been running since 1964!" John snickered. "I usually reference every single episode. So you'll just have to store all of them."

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen door with his long legs crossed and an amused grimace on his face.

"I bloody hate you." Sherlock chuckled.

The lock rattled in the door and Sherlock looked to it expectantly as opposed to what any normal person would do and run and hide. John held his breath because he knew he wouldn't be able to run to Sherlock with the blanket in time.

"Oh." Harry said, stopping short at the threshold of the door. "Well. Looks like there's two in the family."

"Hilarious." John called dryly.

"Okay, and how else would you explain the nude man in our kitchen?" Harry closed the door behind her and took off her jacket and boots.

"I'm not nude. I've got briefs on." Sherlock protested. "John's sister, then?"

"That I am."

"So it's a serious relationship, but one of you has commitment issues. Is it you?"

Harry reeled a bit in shock.

"I didn't tell him anything, it's just this… thing he does." John called. He figured he should probably get up and intervene before Sherlock found another sparring partner.

"John, who is this guy?" Harry said in disgust.

"This is Sherlock—" John tried, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"I don't think she likes your drinking. I don't think John does either, but he doesn't like to talk about it. You might want to stop before it gets too bad and your—" John had actually resorted to covering Sherlock's mouth with his hand.

"Thank you, Sherlock!" He shouted. "I'm sorry Harry. He has this… he's observant."

"How do you stand it?" She grimaced. "It's like he's reading my life history and I've never met him!"

"Yeah…" John shook his head and shrugged. He turned back to Sherlock. "Now when I lift my hand, will you be polite?"

Sherlock glared at him intensely. John did not falter under Sherlock's glare. They had a staring match until Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and nodded reluctantly.

"Good." John said. "Now put your bloody pants back on, it's given you far too much confidence." He peeled his hand from Sherlock's face to find Sherlock smiling underneath it.

"That's interesting." Sherlock muttered, turning towards John's bedroom to retrieve his pants.

"What is?"

"You are."

* * *

><p><strong>So...um... I sort of quite actually died when I saw Reichenbach Falls okay <strong>

**Seriously this show means too much too me, it elicits too much emotion from me.**

**Anyway, due to Reichenbach and to the fact that this is a tiny, tiny chapter; have two on me!**


	7. Chapter 7

John hated all these questions running through his mind. John especially hated having questions while his best friend lay on the camp bed wearing nothing but a towel, poring over a book he'd found.

"What are you doing?" John said, running into a mostly-nude Sherlock.

"This book you've got on anatomy. It's fascinating." Sherlock muttered. "I'm sorry but I think I'm going to replace Frodo with the amount of weight it takes to snap a ligament."

"No—" John shook his head. "Why are you naked? Why don't you put some clothes on?"

"I'm more comfortable nude. And I haven't got any extras. Your mother is washing the clothes I was wearing today."

John's mum came home with Chinese and a couple of words of welcome to Sherlock before she had to rush off to do the night shift at the hospital.

"That doesn't mean you lounge around nude!" John said, averting his eyes. He felt the heat rise up his neck and nestle on his nose. There was a pregnant pause.

"You said that it didn't make you uncomfortable." Sherlock frowned. "But it does."

"Yes, Sherlock. I guess it does." He replied.

"I like making you feel that way." Sherlock muttered, staring at John. John still couldn't look at Sherlock. "Did you know that several forms of evolved primates have elaborate penial displays to their desired mates?" Sherlock finally looked away. "I sort of… I feel a bit like that now."

"I thought you hated trivia."

"I can't get that stupid fact out of my head, especially now. It just seems so… appropriate. Though I don't suspect for sexual reasons… more or less to gauge your reaction."

"Are you trying to tell me that you want to show me your—" John couldn't get the word out, his cheeks were bursting with holding the laughter in.

"Please don't laugh." Sherlock said, his face as flushed as the first day John saw him. He was clearly very self-conscious about his actions.

"Oh… no I'm sorry Sherlock." John walked in, closing the door behind him. "There's a primary schooler inside me. Penis. Okay."

"You still giggle at the word penis?" Sherlock frowned.

"And you never have?"

"No." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "They're parts of the body, like an arm or a leg. They're just highly sensitive reproductive bits."

"So you…" John closed his eyes. "Nevermind."

"What?" Sherlock said sharply.

"It's nothing."

"No it wasn't. What were you about to say?"

"Put some underwear on, and then we can talk." John said, sitting on his bed. John had to find another blanket to put on his bed because Sherlock absolutely refused to use any other blanket than the original one that he'd slept on. Sherlock picked a pair of boxers that were checkered and relatively new. He dropped his towel without any bravado and John's eyes widened and he quickly averted his eyes. Too late, though. Sherlock's tight, firm bum was imprinted on his eyelids. And now Sherlock's tight, firm bum would be slipping into _his_ boxers. John had to press on his lap rather forcefully to discourage his dick from responding. What was happening? He had _never _felt like this about another man before. He'd seen several nude men with no sexual reaction at all but _Sherlock—_

"Now, what were you going to ask me?" Sherlock drawled. Or perhaps he didn't. But Sherlock sounded every bit of a temptress to John right now. He didn't want to talk about penises right now. He couldn't.

"Why did Mycroft kick you out?" John said. He was honestly curious and it would send the flush on his cheeks away. He took a shaking breath and turned to look back at Sherlock. The boxers hung low on his hips, his thin, pale body curved toward John in interest. His legs were crossed underneath him. He bit his lip.

"I told you already, John." Sherlock said softly.

"Don't give me that. I know you come from money. I don't care. Tell me what is wrong." John said, seriously. Thoughts of sex had all but gone from John's mind. Something serious happened to Sherlock and he wanted to help him.

"It's nothing."

"Liar."

"It's nothing to mope about, alright?" Sherlock snapped. "I'll tell you but you have to swear not to pity me."

"I couldn't pity you if I wanted to, Sherlock Holmes." John said. Sherlock looked down. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders for some comfort and started picking at his nails.

"I have never… been very good with words. I didn't speak until I was two. After then, it was all one-word sentences until age 10 when it was required I recited poems. It… takes a lot of practice for me to understand what's acceptable socially. Like walking around nude. I become obsessed with the littlest of topics. I was incredibly obsessed with serial killers from age 5 to age 15. My parents thought I was sick. Sick as in 'unable to be helped' or 'this child is a demon' sort of sick. My father tried ever so hard to beat it out of me. Evidently to no avail. I had thought my name was r-retard. As well as Sherlock." Sherlock took a shaky breath in. "Sometime last year he…got frustrated… when I revealed that he had been sleeping with one of the maids. He hit me until I hit back. The instant I did that, the guards took me away. I was rid of my personal tutor and I was sent away to a boarding school. Just a few months ago I intentionally got myself expelled and took the train into London to live with Mycroft. He sent me to his flat here, saying that he was staying here and he enrolled me in public school and… here we are." Sherlock met John's eyes again and was relieved to find them steady and sure as opposed to weepy and pitiful. "Mycroft thinks that I'm acting childish, not wanting to go to my parents. He says that every good child gets a decent beating and that I was meant to go back to live with them. Normally, I would've just listened to him, but I can't now. I can't go back now. I've found happiness. I haven't been happy since I was seven. I'm happy here with you." Sherlock sighed. "It's stupid to make judgments based solely on human emotion—"

"No it's not." John said. "If you're happy, then what's right will follow. Your brain is incredible. You'll succeed anywhere you go. But it takes a special sort of place to make a brain like that… actually happy."

Sherlock looked up at John, icy eyes wide and innocent—searching John's face for a truth. His lips slowly parted in shock. "I…I don't…"

"You don't have to." John blew off. "Everyone has their demons, Sherlock. It's how we attack them that defines us."

Sherlock laughed softly and looked down at his feet.

"How very poetic of you, John." Sherlock muttered, smiling. "But thank you very much."

"Yeah… well… I think we'd better be getting to bed." John said. "It's late."

"It's only midnight."

"Yes, and I'm going to school tomorrow." John yawned. He laid down in his bed and curled up underneath his sister's extra sheets. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up and turned off the light. "Goodnight, John." He muttered.

* * *

><p><strong>And such is the Sherlock High School AU where they have a sleepover and kiss that night<strong>

**and I take my fist **

**and_ I SHATTER THAT PATTERN!_**

**I'm only joking. To be honest, this is really more of a "how would their lives move if they had met in high school" sort of deal. post-graduation being my main focal point. So I'm not really focusing much on high school, just more on how their relationship would pan out if they had met when they were younger**

**and gayer of course**

**just a little bit gayer**

**okay so let me stop talking before you hate me for it**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was still awake when John woke up the next morning. He was sitting on the edge of the camp bed, just looking at John. John didn't feel alarmed at Sherlock's staring, he actually felt a bit comforted by it. John found the snooze button, and the bee gees stopped playing.

"Good morning." He yawned. Sherlock smiled.

"Are you a morning person, then?"

"Give me a minute and I will be." John tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

"Are you going to school today?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I missed school yesterday. What, are you not going to school?" John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms and back.

"No, I'd like to stay here, if you don't mind." Sherlock said. John was still trying to adjust his eyes to the light.

"Right." John said. "Sure, if that's what you want to do."

"You could stay with me." Sherlock said.

"Now that's peer pressure." John said, standing. "Right. I'm going to go have a shower." John rummaged through his clothes and pulled out an over-sized jumper, a well-fitting pair of jeans and a fresh pair of boxers. Sherlock smiled to himself. John's outfits were so incredibly… John. He yawned widely as he plodded his way to the bathroom. Sherlock climbed up into John's still-warm bed and curled in his sheets. He was still wearing nothing but the boxers John had leant him.

Ten minutes later, John reappeared in the room, bringing with him a cloud of steam and the soft floral scent of soap. Sherlock opened an eye and saw John's dirty-blonde hair dripping onto his khaki sweater.

"What are you doing lying on my bed?" John said, amused.

"It's warm and it smells like you."

"Do I really smell that good?" John said. "First you hijack my blanket and now you're hijacking my bed?"

"I'm keeping the other one. This one smells too much like your sister for my taste."

"Sherlock, if I didn't know you, I'd say that this behavior is incredibly creepy."

"How is it creepy? It's a compliment. I enjoy your scent. I'm not saying that I want to cut off your finger and keep it in a box in my pocket."

"Well now you just did say that." John shook his head. "Which finger would you choose, incidentally?"

"Pinky."

"Ah, you see, I'd have gone with the ring finger." John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's of no importance seeing that I'm not actually going to cut off your finger."

"Right." John said. "Well, I'll be off to school now. Please don't destroy my house. Please don't get into a confrontation with my sister. Don't say anything personal about her. Compliment her, if you could manage it."

"I think I'll just stay in your room." Sherlock said. "Read more anatomy books."

"Right." John said. "I'll see you later."

* * *

><p>It was the first time being in school without Sherlock since he and Sherlock had become friends. It was an oddly unfulfilling experience. He was so used to hearing Sherlock's deep voice commenting on everyday things as he tried to explain to John how to deduce. John found himself missing Sherlock deeply. The pining and the loneliness in school turned harsh when he walked into Chemistry.<p>

"Where's your boyfriend, then, John?" Devin snickered in a group of his friends. "He walking too funny to come in to school?"

John sighed. "Sherlock is not my boyfriend and you seem to know a lot about gay sex, Devin." He replied.

"Gay or not, he's still a fucking freak."

"I can't deny you that." John responded evenly. "He's brilliant though."

"Yeah." Sally nodded. "Total hard-on."

"We're not a couple." John stated.

"Yes you are." Alex said. "A couple of whack jobs." Snickers rang around the room and John ignored them. It wasn't much better in any of his other classes. John just stopped replying. He gritted his teeth and told himself that leaving school would just mean victory for these aggressors.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was bored. The books were boring after a while; he needed something to do. His arms were getting tired holding up John's comforter so he found the largest jumper that John owned and slid it on his torso. He breathed in John's scent before pacing around the room, trouser-less, trying to think up something to do. Sherlock spotted the laptop in the corner and decided that hacking into John's laptop could serve as some form of distraction. He flopped on the bed with the laptop open in front of him and started in on password. Of course, John Watson who loved his father so much had his password be his father's patrol name. Sherlock got it on the first try.<p>

Sherlock let all the pop ups open before perusing through John's internet history. He frequented several web comics and certain internet blogs. He had a surprisingly small amount of porn in his history. He still had some, which meant that he didn't delete it all immediately.

Sherlock found it all to be very dull and shut the laptop in frustration. He took the jumper off and walked, almost nude, to the dryer to retrieve his clothes. Unfortunately, he ran into Harry on his way there.

"Oh. You're still here? I thought you'd went to school with John." Her voice held very little animosity, mostly just curiosity. "Do your parents know that you're here?"

"No." Sherlock said. "They kicked me out months ago. I live with my brother." She blinked in surprise.

"Does your brother know you're here?"

"I don't know. He kicked me out two days ago." Sherlock replied. John's voice played in his head. "Listen… erm… I'm sorry if I said things yesterday that made you uncomfortable. I'm not accusatory in any of my observations… they're merely observations."

"Oh… yes." She said. "So… why did your parents kick you out?" Sherlock cursed revealing this much to Harry. She'd ask questions until she got a decent answer.

"They… tried to change who I was. And I couldn't."

"Yeah, no I understand." She nodded sympathetically. "And your brother for the same reason?" Her eyes were more intense than he'd expected.

"No… I mean… we've never really gotten on. I suspect he can tolerate me in most respects but he feels my parents are right in this sense."

"I'm so sorry." She whispered. "My ex… Jenny? Her parents kicked her out too. I couldn't begin to imagine how awful that must've been."

Sherlock gave a small start.

"They kicked her out because she was gay." Sherlock clarified. Harry nodded. Sherlock nodded once in response. Harry thought that he'd been kicked out of his house because he was gay.

"Well, it's lovely that John's opened our house to you. Stay as long as you'd like." She started to walk past him but then hesitated. "Are you and John… dating?"

Sherlock paused and shook his head.

"I think that that term cheapens our relationship." Sherlock said with a wry smile. "Now, I think I'd better get my clothes back on." Sherlock said.

* * *

><p>Lunch was an absolute torture. People were shoving past him intentionally, dropping meatballs in his milk and shouting slurs across the cafeteria. Devin, the instigator and the leader behind all of these attacks was sitting a few seats away, flinging pasta noodles at John's head before the solider in him finally stood up for himself.<p>

"You know what, Devin?" John stood and faced him. "The only reason you're starting all of this is because you're trying to hide your own sexuality by exploiting others. I've seen the sidelong glances that you give in the locker room. I've seen you watching Sherlock and I sometimes after school, a look on your face desperate. I didn't want to say anything because I've learned from my sister not to out someone who's not ready. But you're attacking me so I've got to attack with the only weapon I have. Get over yourself and get over me."

"You think I'm gay?" Devin laughed nervously. "Are you serious? That's the worst joke you've ever made, Watson."

"Oh shut the hell up." John rolled his eyes. "The jig is fucking up."

"You know what the worst thing about you is?" Devin averted. "It's not that you're a fag. It's that you hang out with Sherlock Holmes. Willingly." He snorted. "I mean, we get it. That guy has some crazy shit wrong with him. But you have to be even more fucked up than the most fucked up person to enjoy hanging around with an insane kid like that."

"I've never met an interesting person that was sane." John countered.

"Whatever." Devin sneered. "You're still fucking that retard."

It happened in an instant. John punched Devin in the face and Devin had no time to react. He was on the floor, one hand clutching his face as he scrambled to sit up. He glared at John as John tipped his lunch over on Devin. He leaned closed to hiss in Devin's ear.

"Call Sherlock insane, call him demented and arrogant and awkward. And as for me, you can call me whatever the hell you like. But don't you fucking dare. For a second. Call him that again." John's voice was dangerous. Devin heard it and tried to scoot away. John straightened himself and looked around the cafeteria. Everyone was hushed as they watched John. John smiled wryly, straightened his coat and walked out of the cafeteria and then out of the school. He sat in his car for a long while, tending to the cuts on his fist. Devin had braces. He didn't know what he was going to tell Sherlock.

* * *

><p><strong>punching bullies in the cafeteria<strong>

**and I wrote this waaay before reichenbach so I didn't even know about his whole punching the superintendent in the face thing**

**I feel minutely special**

**haHA**

**so yes. Yeah. Yes.**


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock confided himself in John's room again. He put on his pants and decided after a while to slip on John's jumper again. He flopped himself down on John's bed and opened the laptop again. He never did go through the hard drive. He was scrolling through the long list of document folders. John did like to write. He clicked on the one called 'Journal' and opened the latest entry. Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he saw the title of the document.

**_Sherlock._**

_I know that I've written about Sherlock being my best friend and how we get on well and all, but I feel as though I need to elaborate. I just snuck into my bedroom to grab this when I looked at Sherlock sleeping. It's odd, but I found myself transfixed by his sleeping form. I… I don't know why. Or maybe I do and I'm avoiding that subject. _

_I remember when I first saw him and he just took a shit all over Sally's pretentious self. He was like a whirlwind of wit and intelligence and I… I had to have him. In the most delicate sense of the word. I needed to be near him at all times. I wanted to woo him, I wanted to court him. I wanted to learn everything about him. I was overcome, really, with how much I cared for him. I resented him for making me feel this way, initially. But then I realized that succumbing to my emotions for him was so much easier than trying to fight them. And so much more rewarding._

_I sound rather gay right now, but to be honest, it feels like more than that. It's so much easier writing these things down rather than having them bump around my head, making me paranoid and I definitely know that there is no way I could ever say these things out loud._

_I don't know if… if I sexually want him in that way… and I… I'm not sure if I want to find that out. But I know that I want him in my life. Forever._

_Have you ever looked into the sun? Its light is so harsh and unforgiving that it could burn your corneas to crisps from millions of miles away. Its power is so unforgiving that you literally can not bear to look it in the face for more than a single second. Well that's how I imagine Sherlock wants to be seen. He possesses enough power to be so radiant, but to me… he's like the moon. His eyes are filled with an unacknowledged sadness and a desperate fervor to prove himself. I can stand to look him in the face, but I am still humbled by his existence. Every time the moon shines brightly, all the stars are dimmed and disappear. The moon is up there all alone, save for one star. Though I don't know how I could imagine myself important enough, I… I picture myself as that one star—the north star—always a constant companion through the inky night skies._

_If Sherlock read this he'd click his teeth at my usage of extended metaphors. But I'm not sorry, Sherlock. It's difficult to explain you. You're… other-worldly. Fantastic. Beautiful. You're more than I had expected and you still amaze and surprise me in ways I thought you couldn't. Ways that I thought no one could. Watching you lie in my bed, nuzzle my blankets into you closely and sigh in your sleep has to be one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I really hope you don't read this. I just felt my stomach jolt watching you. I felt my heart warm. I wanted to touch your face, but then I got this little message in my brain screaming 'you're not gay you're not gay!' Because I'm not gay. Not much, anyway. I'm not particularly sexually aroused by the male form. I'd never imagined a life with a man. And now I can't imagine life without another one. I think I hear you stirring. I hope you like grilled cheese. Or I don't really care if you like it or not because I'm going to make you eat it anyway._

"Sherlock." John said from his doorway. Right. Somewhere Sherlock had registered a car pulling into the drive and a door opening. He was too busy reading John's journal entry. He was too engrossed in these impossible things that John was saying. Sherlock's back was to John. He found that he was shaking slightly. "Sherlock, did you read my journal?" John's voice was a cracked shadow of itself. It was a question of which John knew the answer. Sherlock set down the laptop and turned around. He took in John's appearance.

"You've had a terrible day." Sherlock said.

"Yes, well. Now it's worse." John replied dryly. "Surely even you must know that I keep certain things private for a reason." John seemed at the brink of either screaming or crying.

"You've been in a fight."

"There was one punch." John said, tiredly. "And then I left."

Sherlock nodded. There was a pause. "John—"

"Why?" John hissed. "My day was already shit. I don't understand Sherlock." John said. "All day I stood up for you—I stood up for us—and you just… shit all over my privacy."

"I didn't know—"

"Yeah, that was the point, you ass!" John bit. He covered his face with his hands. "I'm going back out."

"No!" Sherlock chased him. "Don't—"

"Why not?" John said.

"Because…" Sherlock's mind went into overdrive trying to think of reasons to keep John here. "Because I was wrong." Sherlock said. John stopped immediately and turned around.

"_You_ were wrong about something?" John's eyebrows raised.

"Yes." Sherlock admitted. "And _you_ were right. I… I do love something." John's lips parted slowly in surprise.

"O…oh."

"I actually employed your sister to go pick things up from Mycroft's. I hope you… you don't mind or anything."

"No…" John muttered, his eyes still wide. "No it's fine."

"Well…" Sherlock said. "When I was younger I told you that I didn't speak. That's only partially true. I didn't use my words. I… I played my violin."

"Your violin?" John repeated. "Is… Your violin, that's what you love, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "And you said that you wanted to know everything about me. I keep that part of me very close. It's incredibly personal so I hope you keep it… er…to yourself."

"Of course, Sherlock." John said.

* * *

><p><strong>Someone complimented me on my writing on tumblr and it put me in a good mood so here's a chapter!<strong>

**Poor John...**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock sat stiffly on John's couch. John sat across from him. Sherlock clutched onto his violin as though someone was about to come and steal it away from him. He was gripping his bow nervously. They had been sitting in complete silence for about fifteen minutes. John finally leaned forward.

"If you're uncomfortable, you don't have to—"

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. He was acting like a child almost. Sherlock clenched his fists tighter around the instrument and its bow, but not so tight as to damage them. John stood up and walked over to sit next to Sherlock. He wordlessly laid a hand over Sherlock's bowed one. Sherlock looked at their hands for a minute and then into John's eyes. John felt that swooping feeling that he wasn't supposed to have. Sherlock relaxed a tiny bit, gave John a tiny smile before his face was wiped clean of every emotion. He positioned his bow and closed his eyes.

Sherlock pulled the note out, a deep full note so sorrowful that John's mouth opened slightly. Sherlock zigzagged up to a high note, like a mouse scurrying, and he pulled the high note. He gave a few beats rest before he moved into the piece itself. It was completely original, John could hear that. Perhaps this was the first time Sherlock had ever played these notes in this order. He played in minor, slow and steady at first Less sorrowful as the time passed on. John could almost hear Sherlock's voice. The notes were pleading. The deeper tones were a so familiar… perhaps they were how Sherlock viewed himself, because whenever they attempted to reach to the higher notes, they always drifted back down to their deepest pitch.

Sherlock's face was scrunching up, he was speaking through the music. His brows were furrowed and his jaw was clenched. The sorrowful tune continued on it's way through, the poor deep notes attempting to reach the elusive high ones until together they met in the middle. Suddenly the tune increased in tempo and the high and low notes danced together. The deepest reaching some of the highest in a whirlwind frenzy. It was dizzyingly beautiful. John wanted to cry. Then it slowed again, the highest note breaking off, reaching the highest note yet and slowly descending deeper, almost as if to say good bye. The low note ended somewhere in the middle, sorrowful. Sad. Alone. As it had started.

Sherlock's eyes didn't open. He didn't move much. His eyes were closed tight. John didn't want to use words. He couldn't. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant. Sherlock thought John was going to leave him. He thought that John would one day realized that he wasn't this fantastic brilliant thing and leave him, just as everyone else had in his life. John was this brilliant high note and Sherlock was this deep, sorrowful note.

John took Sherlock's hand and swallowed. He wasn't exactly the musical type… but he understood the gist. He was no singer, but he would try.

He hummed a low note. Nothing too absurdly low. He then did a blip of the high note. He descended the high note down to the low note tentatively. Then paused. He brought the note up slightly before it went back down again. Up. Down. The low note didn't want to be brought up. He brought it up to what he thought was the middle and hummed that for a while. He wanted to make the notes sound like they intertwined but he was no musician and this was the best he had. He stopped and then… his voice cracked. He made the lower note higher, and the higher note lower. Showing their true value.

Sherlock frowned and opened his eyes, looking at john. He shook his head. He brought his violin to his chin and played four notes, long notes. High notes. Major notes. A happy four notes. That was John to him. He played two deep notes, in four parts, monotonous. Deep. Sad. That was his self portrait. He made those few notes run together, it sounded like conflict. Deep conflict until the higher note stopped responding. It disappeared completely. John shook his head.

"No." he couldn't help but respond in his own language. "Sherlock that's never going to happen."

Sherlock didn't respond. He brought the violin down to his side. He struggled to find English. "It always does." His deep voice was raspy. It was as though he hadn't spoken a word in months.

"Well I'm different. You should know that."

"I've known you for a few weeks." Sherlock sniffed. "How could you know how this relationship is going to pan out?"

John smiled smally, looked down and then found Sherlock's eyes before replying.

"Because I can understand your language."

Sherlock's sneer disappeared and he searched John's eyes. He leaned away and swallowed.

"Prove it." Sherlock said. John blinked. He had been completely certain that he knew what Sherlock was saying with his notes. Now Sherlock's accusation was unsettling. He was completely certain that he could understand Sherlock so very well.

"Well… the deep notes are you, aren't they? And the high ones were me? And you sounded… you sounded so sad Sherlock. Until I came around. Things were still pretty sad, but you had me—the high notes. They went together perfectly. Not the slightest bit of conflict. And then the fast bit… it sounds like something is going to happen. Either a conflict or an… advancement in our relationship. And then the rest was a sort of sad… alone. You expect me to leave no matter where this goes." John frowned. "I tried to tell you Sherlock. You need to let me help you. We could bring the best out in each other." John stared him with ferocity.

Sherlock acted on the impulse before he could evaluate it. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John. John didn't react at first. It was too shocking. He didn't even close his eyes. His heart was racing as he caught Sherlock's eye while he backed out of the soft peck. Sherlock looked incredibly uncertain. He was afraid that he'd broken some sort of limitation between them. John smiled and leaned in to catch Sherlock in another kiss. Sherlock kissed back, smiling smally. His eyes we open slightly to see John's conviction. Yes. John wanted this. He actually wasn't going to leave. It was in this moment that Sherlock decided to trust John Watson. With everything.

They broke apart and Sherlock smiled shyly. 'Shy' was something that was so not Sherlock that John couldn't help but to laugh in surprise. Sherlock leaned their foreheads together for a moment before laying his head in John's lap, sprawling the rest of his body out on the couch and bringing his violin to his chin. Sherlock played violin versions of songs that he'd heard on the radio while John played with his hair. They had wordlessly slipped into a comfortable relationship. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever felt so completely at peace as they did in that moment.

* * *

><p>As Sherlock slipped into his camp bed that night, he murmured though the silence.<p>

"By the way… before your sister came home, she asked me why I was kicked out."

"And what did you say?" "I said that my parents were trying to change me. She seemed to think that I was homosexual."

"Yeah." John snorted. "that's Harry for you."

"So I think she assumes we're in a relationship." Sherlock said. John could hear the smile from across the room.

"Well I'm happy to prove her right." John murmured.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock murmured into his pillow.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay so this was difficult to write because I could hear the music in my head but it was difficult to describe. I hope I did alright. I just felt that Sherlock would want to test John with his most basic... language. I don't know I guess I'm cheesy like that. Also, I feel like John could understand Sherlock because he knows Sherlock. He knows how Sherlock would communicate, perhaps his body language mixed with the soulful tunes of the violin. I don't know, I'm just a huge violin fan. <strong>

**Okay so also honestly, I posted this so soon because of Lucy who is ahh thank you for reviewing so much and telling me what you liked. Thank you very much you don't know much it made my night**

**So I dedicate this chapter to yooooooooooou~**

**and what an important chapter it was **


	11. Chapter 11

The next few weeks at school were quite difficult for both John and Sherlock. Sherlock was generally unperturbed by the gay slurs being thrown at him. 'I've heard worse insults about more delicate aspects of me' he said. Sherlock was not pleased, though, of how everyone treated John. John was very hurt by the words even though he tried not to show it. John wasn't gay, and neither was Sherlock, but they were both in a romantic relationship with a member of the same gender.

People didn't seem to understand that there was something else, something that linked these two that was deeper, much deeper, than sexual attraction. It was something that John's family had witnessed and was in awe of it. How remarkable it was that those two could have entire conversations without so much as one word uttered. Sherlock and John had slipped together so seamlessly that they were always talked about as a pair. At school and at home. They were never overly romantic. In fact they were hardly romantic in public at all unless you counted the occasional hand-holding and side-glances.

In private, they had shared kisses. They were as innocent as the phrase 'shared kisses' implies. They were passionate in other respects. In a single look, either boy would throw his whole being at his sleeves, and the other would look into his partner's eyes with astonishment that there was still a person in the world who cared as much at the person next to them did. It was love, before either of them said that word.

At school. Yes, at school they tried to break them. Perhaps they sensed that something extraordinary was happening between the two boys and were frightened by it so they mocked it. Most likely Sherlock and John made themselves easy targets by being so strange and so openly protective of their opposite.

Sometimes people would whisper 'retard' when they walked past. John would do his best not to react, but it was difficult. Sherlock would lay a hand on his forearm to let John know that he wasn't offended. John still hated it. More than anything.

In the end, though, Sherlock wound up on the kip bed in John's room, smiling at him wordlessly for a few seconds before kissing his nose or forehead or lips and whispering a goodnight against his skin. And that was all John really needed anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>woah<strong>

**this is a lot shorter than I imagined. **

**I've just been writing it and it's just making me so sad so I just want you to see the happy bits**

**convince me to post the next chapter and I WILL but**

**yeah here's a **

**really really _really _tiny chapter**

**also hi zoe and noah**


	12. Chapter 12

"I want to go meet your brother." John said. It was mid-March and Sherlock had been staying with John for two months. Sherlock was a magnificent gambler who was fantastic at cards and had a flawless poker face. He gave all the money that he won to John's mother to compensate for him using the water and eating her food. She didn't accept at first, but when she saw that the living arrangement would most likely become permanent, she accepted his money.

Sherlock sniffed.

"Why would you want to meet him?"

"Certainly he's worried about you."

"If he were truly worried about me he would come find me. He knows I'm safe. He's probably seen me at school or something. He probably knows that I'm staying with you. He's not worried, you're just curious."

"I certainly am." John said. "I want to meet him."

"Why?" "Sherlock."

"Fine." Sherlock huffed. "But get ready to meet the most evil man in all of Britain."

* * *

><p>The flat was pretty nice, it was downtown and John had to buzz to get in. When they knocked on the door that was said to be Mycroft's Sherlock was leaning against the wall.<p>

The door swung open to reveal a slender man with auburn hair and a very posh air about him.

"Ah." He said, smiling at John. "We meet at last, Mr. Watson." He stepped aside and let John through. Sherlock scuffed his way in behind John and then immediately found a wall to lean against. Mycroft wasn't as old as John had expected. In fact, he couldn't be any older than Harry. "Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes's evil elder brother." He held out his hand and John took it graciously.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." John said immediately. He didn't know if it was a pleasure or not. John had only just met the man. He looked around the flat and saw that it was beautifully decorated. Delicate woodworking curled around the mantle piece, a brilliant oak dinner table sat to the side, a plasma screen television not 4 feet away. It was an incredible mixture of modern and a classic Victorian feel.

"I have to be going soon, I'm incredibly busy, but I would like to explain myself before you accept Sherlock's description of me." Mycroft said. "Would you like to recount that night, Sherlock?"

"Pffeh." Sherlock breathed.

"Mm. I thought not." Mycroft said. He straightened himself. "So the night I 'kicked him out'." Myroft used air quotes. "I was terribly busy—I work for the government, you know—and Sherlock was making a fuss about not being able to conduct experiments in my flat. I told him that under no circumstances was he to damage any piece of furniture in this flat. It's our parents', you see." Mycroft said. "He immediately got up in arms and started preparing things to conduct an experiment on the melting point of different furniture polishes." Mycroft sighed poignantly. "I turned my back for a minute and when I turn around again, he's burning the legs off of the fine dining room set." John's eyebrows raised and he turned back to Sherlock. He managed to leave this part out of his recounting. "And… I suppose…I may have gotten a bit… over-heated about the situation. I told him… I said that he should go back to Mummy and Daddy because they could at least control him by threat where I had no crux on him at all." Mycroft shifted. "But I did regret saying that, you know. I didn't mean it at all. I was beaten myself by those two. That's why I took in Sherlock in the first place. So he was offended and he just left. You know Sherlock. And I do rather think he was overexcited to stay at your home, in such close proximity to his… best friend." He loaded those words with such meaning that John looked away in embarrassment. Sherlock stopped slouching and slid his hand into John's, staring down Mycroft. It made John regain his confidence in his words.

"Wait, so if you were so concerned for Sherlock, then why didn't you reach out to him and say so? Why didn't you make him come home?"

"Because he was happy." Mycroft said. "And I had never seen that in Sherlock so powerfully before. I meant to come and fetch him. Twice. But I figured that he was staying with wonderful people. And he was happy. Had there been any confrontation and you two, I would reach in and try and rectify things. It's what I do for a living." Mycroft said. "I observe. When conflict arises, I either try and rectify things or I choose sides."

"Well that's comforting." John said sarcastically.

"I'm glad you think so, John Watson." Mycroft said. He stepped past John and grabbed a long umbrella and leaned on it. "I shall be gone for four hours. Possibly five. If you'd like to stay here, you are welcome to. Just so long as nothing in this apartment becomes part of an experiment in any sort." He glared at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh go run the government, Mycroft." He bit.

"I'll see you two later." Mycroft said, closing the door behind him. There was a pause before Sherlock threw off his jacket.

"You were rather… vague about being kicked out, weren't you." John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock flopped onto the couch. He pointed the remote at the TV and did not respond. "You burned a dining room set?"

"Just the leg. He's gone and had it replaced, with a rather poor copy, too. Do you see?" John started to turn around before Sherlock shouted. "No! No, you've already seen it. Now go back and figure out which one."

John sighed. Sherlock had been doing this recently. Trying to teach John to be as brilliant as him.

"Come on, John. You're not dense. I know you saw it." Sherlock prodded. John sighed again and closed his eyes. He pictured walking in the house again and saw the dining set. He had noticed that one of the chairs was not level with the others. It was a bit tilted. Just slightly tilting backwards and two the left.

"The… bottom left corner of the table." John opened his eyes with surprise. "That chair."

"Which leg?"

"Back left." John laughed. Sherlock stood, his eyes swimming with pride. He swooped in and kissed John. John lingered.

"You are brilliant, John Watson."

How could Sherlock make him feel so fantastic and be so fantastic himself? John's head swam. He flung his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him in a way that they had never kissed before. Sherlock held John's waist and gripped it tightly. John closed his eyes in the feeling he rested his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock clasped his hands together behind John's back and John did the same behind Sherlock's head. Sherlock absolutely hated excessive touching. Usually Sherlock was the one to slip his hand into John's or start a kiss. But John didn't want to leave Sherlock's arms just yet. A flame had lit in his belly.

John had never seriously entertained ideas of seducing Sherlock. They were all passing fancies that all seemed improbable to actually come to pass. But here, swaying in Sherlock's arms… all too close to Sherlock… John felt a flush brighten his cheeks and nose. Sherlock wasn't pulling away. He had just rested his chin on the top of John's head, placing tiny kisses in John's hair.

"I think you need a shower." Sherlock commented. "Your hair smells a bit musty."

"I…" John said breathlessly. He backed away from Sherlock to hide his growing erection. "I'll… I've got nothing to change into."

"I'd love to see you in some of my pajamas." Sherlock smiled, his hands in his pockets. John noticed the considerable amount of strain that Sherlock's shirt buttons were under. John was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to undo them slowly with his tongue.

"John?" Sherlock half-shouted, frowning. John yelped in surprise. "Are you alright?" Sherlock muttered.

"I….I'm just… going to have a shower then…" John said. He turned away quickly, almost tripping over the footstool before disappearing around the corner. He grabbed a towel and locked the bathroom door.

John slunk to the floor, his breathing labored. A cold shower was exactly what he needed.

* * *

><p><strong>Of course Sherlock would leave out details about Mycroft. That's Sherlock. <strong>

**Also**

**_Sensuality~_**

**Please review!**


	13. Chapter 13

John was in the bathroom for a good 30 minutes. Ten of those minutes were to talk himself out of masturbating. Fifteen of those minutes were spent standing motionless under a steady cold stream. The last five minutes John washed his hair and bathed himself.

John had forgotten to ask Sherlock for clothes before going into the bathroom. John wrapped the towel around his waist before venturing out into Mycroft's flat.

"Sherlock?"

"In here." Sherlock called. He sounded distracted. John sighed.

He approached the room from where the noise came. "Sherlock, have you got some extra pants that I cou—" John stopped at a dead halt when he saw Sherlock. Sherlock was lying on the bed on his side, reading a book. That wasn't what was remarkable. The most noticeable bit about Sherlock was the fact that he was doing this completely nude. John saw the damp towel lying at the foot of the bed in a crumple, so there must have been some failed attempt of covering up. Sherlock seemed completely comfortable doing this. It must've been a common thing when he lived here alone with Mycroft. Mycroft probably never entered this room.

John's breath caught in such an odd way. Sherlock looked up at him, looked back at himself and his eyes widened in a _I'm genuinely sorry, John I forgot that this made you uncomfortable _glance. Sherlock closed the book and crawled to the end of the bed to retrieve his towel while John just let his drop. Sherlock stared at his towel, then into John's eyes. Sherlock then took to memorize every inch of John's body. The freckles on his chest. The size and shape of his nipples. He had two freckles right at his pelvis at the base of his penis. They were mostly covered by light brown pubic hair. Sherlock noticed that John was starting to harden.

Sherlock met John's eye and Sherlock noticed that his pupils were blown out with desire.

"Open the blinds." Sherlock said evenly. "Turn off the light."

"I want to see your face—" John breathed

"And I just want to hear you in these moments." Sherlock sat back on his feet. Sherlock closed his eyes. John was shaking with nerves and anticipation. He clicked the light off and felt his way over to the window. He opened the blinds and the milky light of the full moon spilled into the room. John let out a breath of a laugh and looked at Sherlock. His pale skin was absolutely glowing with moonlight.

"I can't help but to indulge an extended metaphor." He smiled. John slipped into bed with Sherlock. They didn't kiss. Not just yet. Sherlock held the covers up for John to lay under. They were nude, facing each other. Sherlock's face illuminated by the light, John's face was away from the window so Sherlock could hear every quirk that John had. Slowly they fell into each other, kissing and sliding their fingers over each other's torsos smoothly. Nothing about this was rushed. Nothing about this was harried or loud. There was no ripping of the clothes to get to their lovers genitals. They expressed their passion in their tentative touches and soft kisses. Everything went in slow motion.

John kissed Sherlock's neck gingerly as he slid his hand down to Sherlock's thigh. He was persuading Sherlock with his nimble fingers, calling Sherlock into a sexual state. Sherlock's breaths shortened and he leaned his head on John's shoulder. Every puff of breath that Sherlock exhaled in ecstasy sent the most beautiful of tremors down John's spine. Sherlock tentatively reached down to John's midsection and mimicked John's actions on him. John's breath hitched as he slid himself just a bit closer to his lover. John let out the tiniest moans and Sherlock gasped at the sound. He pulled John into a passionate kiss and stroked him ever faster. John danced his fingers around Sherlock, sliding the tip of his finger up its length. John continued to touch and please Sherlock gently, increasing his pace. He was touching, stroking, coaxing deliciously delicate noises from Sherlock, his face twitching with his desire. Suddenly, Sherlock released a deep moan and pressed in even closer to John.

Their chests were touching now in a passionate embrace filled with labored breathing and tiny moans. Sherlock's moans became just a bit louder, more prominent, he was going over—he was making his leap—possibly the first ever leap—over the edge of passion. John stared, heavy lidded into Sherlock's face. Sherlock's face contorted with desire in the heavy moonlight, his features so opposite of his usual brooding glare. He held onto John as he cried out in ecstasy. John let loose the breath he had been holding. No one in the world could be as beautiful as Sherlock. There was no one that could exist in this world that could compare to his Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his hand's pace until John ducked his head into Sherlock's chest and groaned deeply in the height of his own orgasm. They pressed themselves together, sticky at the stomach, mouths exploring mouths. John backed out and looked Sherlock deep in the eyes. His passion-blurred, love-stricken eyes. Sherlock slicked back John's hair and kissed his forehead, then his nose, and then his lips. He reached out behind John and pulled a few tissues from the bedside. John wiped Sherlock and himself off and threw the tissues away in the bin on his side. He paused before he kissed Sherlock on the forehead, the nose and then the lips.

They fell asleep naked, tangled in each other's arms.

* * *

><p><strong>What you're seeing is the third draft of this scene.<strong>

**I wanted it to be slow, soft, so I couldn't use the word 'penis' it was just too... sexual. This was a much more sensual scene. I had this image in my head where they stared each other in the face and just lightly touched each other until climax. I know it's short, but you have to think in the context of the characters. Sherlock isn't some sexually closed off person, he's asexual- or to be honest, he's demisexual, and John is the only person in the world who could possibly get him aroused. Once that happens, there's a short window of time in which John can... utilize... this. **

**wow micah why the long explanation**

**I just have so many feels about the complex sexual relationship between these characters**

**anyway, reviews would be lovely! I know it's not a typical sex scene and wow the authors note is going to be half the chapter at this rate**


	14. Chapter 14

The light blared on and two sharp taps knocked on the door. John groaned and pulled the comforter above his head. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I leave for a couple of hours and you two decide to christen my flat?" Mycroft smirked.

"Go away Mycroft…" Sherlock grumbled into his pillow. John was wide awake under the covers, pressing his hands to his face in embarrassment. He was completely nude.

"But you've managed to surprise me, Sherlock. Doesn't that please you?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow. Sherlock grunted in response. "Evidently it doesn't please you more than John, here." He snickered. John changed his mind about Mycroft. He was evil. He was pure bloody evil. Sherlock finally rolled over to lean on his elbows and stare at Mycroft.

"What do you want me to say to you?" Sherlock said. "Do you think that you're embarrassing me in any way? The idea that I actually can be embarrassed is still up for debate."

"Not you, Sherlock."

"Oh, quit picking on John." Sherlock snapped. "This is his first impression of you, you know."

John wanted to dig a hole into the mattress and just run away. His face was flushed.

"John, we know you're awake." Mycroft said. "And we certainly know you can hear us. Don't you have anything to say to defend yourself?" "I'd rather not comment just now." John said, still curled under the comforter. Sherlock slipped under the comforter and placed a hand on John's clenched hands. He gave him such a steady look that said 'this is just my brother. He isn't going to harm you.' that John regained some form of confidence. Just enough to poke his head over the covers.

"There he returns. Unless you had other intentions for being under the duvets. In which case I could… return."

"Oh no." John said. "We were saving fellatio for your bedroom."

"There he is." Mycroft said fondly. "Ever the soldier, John Watson."

"And Mycroft Holmes, the man who always has a snide comment but rarely ever an action." John said dryly. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock laughed aloud.

"To be honest, Sherlock, I didn't imagine this possible from you. I thought you to be asexual." "I am." Sherlock said. "And John is heterosexual."

"Isn't this a conundrum." Mycroft said. "I'm still amazed at John's… to put it delicately, ability to get you motivated."

"I'm good at persuasion." John smirked. "I'd have to say that we're each other's only exception. I'd like to say that."

"I've never had sexual desire for anyone until about two hours ago."

"And I, never for a man." John said. "I suppose sexuality is a bit of a messy thing."

"Yes." Mycroft said. "I suppose it is." Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Well as long as you're happy, Sherlock. You can have all the sex that you want, I couldn't be bothered." Sherlock tensed. John rubbed his face. Mycroft snorted. "Ta." There was a silence that built up between Sherlock and John that grew to be so tense that John wanted to scoot away.

"John… Erm… while I very much did enjoy the… relations… that we recently had I don't think—"

"Sherlock, I don't want to have loads of sex with you." John said. Sherlock looked over, blinking.

"You don't?"

"No. I don't want to have sex with you unless you're interested and you don't seem very interested very easily."

"I'm not."

"And I'm not an entirely sexual being, you know. I can go without it. Having an emotional relationship with you is enough."

" 'Emotional'…" Sherlock sniffed.

"Yes, you do have them." John rolled his eyes. "If I were to get up and walk out of your life right now, you would definitely feel them. Just not the ones that are pleasant to feel. Or I hope you would." John mumbled.

"In any case…" Sherlock muttered. "I'm… pleased… that you are on the save wavelength with me about sexual relations."

"This may happen again, you understand." John said.

"Yes."

"And are you prepared to—"

"John, I love seeing you happy. And if I have to occasionally make you orgasm I will. Just don't expect me to become sexually aroused often, and I don't want you to get offended when I'm not."

"I won't be." John murmured.

"Yes you will. You'll feel embarrassed that your penis is hard and mine is not. You'll think that because of that, I'll chuckle at your discomfort. I have to tell you right now, John. I usually do laugh at sexual discomfort. But… You look impossibly beautiful in those moments. It's just as intimate for me. It's just not sexual."

John closed his eyes and leaned his head against Sherlock's chest.

"I'll believe you."

Sherlock took him into his arms and brushed John's hair back. "Well you should. And do you know why?" Sherlock muttered into John's hair.

"Why?" John mumbled.

"Because I'm always right."

* * *

><p><strong>Again, another short chapter, but whatever whatever I do what I want<strong>

**I thought it was kind of adorable. **

**Yes. **


	15. Chapter 15

"I want photographs!" Ms. Watson bustled through the room. "Come on, let's go! Wake up you two!" She said, nudging them out of bed. John had invested in buying a cheap queen bed, with the promise to his mother that he would not have sex while anyone was in the house. They would alternate between Mycroft's apartment and John's house, and it bothered both owners of the buildings to no end.

John found it hard to explain to his mother that, yes, they had sex, but no, it was not going to be a regular thing. The intimacy of simply touching something so innocent as a cheek in the middle of the night was more than all the sex he could have with Sherlock. Sherlock had tried to have sex with John a few more times, but it was too forced and John didn't want Sherlock to feel obliged to indulge him sexually. Whenever he had sexual feelings about Sherlock he would simply sit in front of his lover and touch himself softly, staring into Sherlock's blue eyes.

"I don't understand the frequency in which you are sexually aroused, John." Sherlock said one day while John was touching himself over his clothes, his cheeks flushed. "But you do look lovely."

"I look lovely, do I?" John chuckled breathlessly. "I feel like I look like a pervert…"

"You look stunning." Sherlock whispered, leaning forward to kiss his cheeks. John's breath hitched. When he finished, throwing his head back in ecstasy, Sherlock placed tiny kisses on his neck.

That was their sex life. Two different stages of arousal, and yet they connected at such a complete level. It couldn't be called sex, so much as it could be described as each boy opening their hearts completely to the other—as intimate as if they had their clothes off.

Anyone could have sex, Sherlock reasoned. Not everyone could have this level of sincerity.

"Up!" She screeched, flipping the lights on. "First day as seniors in high school! Aren't you excited?"

"I stopped being enthusiastic about school at about year seven." John murmured, curling himself closer into Sherlock. Sherlock squirmed and covered his face with a pillow.

"It took you till year seven? I started loathing school at year three." Sherlock yawned.

"Shut up." John grumbled, propping himself on his elbows and looking sleepily over at Sherlock. "You love learning things."

"I hate learning pointless things." Sherlock clarified. He stretched, extending his already long limbs like a cat. He then curled up, pulling the rest of the covers from John and falling asleep. John looked at him; his hair framing his pale head, his eyes heavy with sleep, his lips parted slightly, a steady beat of breaths passing through them. John felt his heart swell and bent down to kiss Sherlock's head. Sherlock smiled a little bit and opened an eye to look at John. John's heart skipped a beat. An entire summer of these looks and John still hadn't gotten over it. He didn't think he ever would.

"Come on, there's school to attend!" Ms. Watson exclaimed. "Photos to be snapped! Get up, now!"

Sherlock moaned and buried himself deeper into the sheets as John stretched and got out of bed.

"Where is your dad?" Sherlock asked, his head down in his crossed arms, looking at John. They were in the library instead of eating Lunch. John hated the noisiness of the cafeteria and Sherlock hated the people in it.

"Why do you want to know?" John said, his cheeks bulging with roast beef sandwich.

"Merely curious." Sherlock said. "I mean, I already know, but I want to hear why you admire him so much."

"I don't… I don't aspire to be like him, Sherlock. I never want to be like him. He left my mum pregnant with me and divorced her before he went into the Army. I don't want to be like that. I just want to go into the Army. He's respected in his field and that's what I want to be." John shrugged.

"So you still want to go into the Army?" Sherlock murmured. John hesitated and sighed.

"Yes. I do." John said. "But I really couldn't bear leaving you behind. I'd want to take you with me."

Sherlock failed to hide how pleased he was at John's response. "Well, I'm sorry that I'm keeping you from the Army."

"No you're not." John chuckled.

"No, I'm not in the slightest." Sherlock admitted.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow these chapters are just getting shorter and shorter<strong>

**time is going to move by much quicker now, alright. Long periods of time are just going to whiz by. I'll post chapter 16 too. Just because I'm feeling generous. I just want to get to a certain point because most of this is just fluffy build up!**

**You'll see. Chapter 21. You'll see.**


	16. Chapter 16

"Stand still and let me fix your collar." John commanded. "Your lapel is a bit awkward. They were graduating. It seemed like all of the years John had spent miserable in school were worth it to experience this past year and a half. Meeting Sherlock was a life-changing experience and he still counted himself lucky every time John looked over at Sherlock.

"I don't see why we have to walk in the graduation line." Sherlock sniffed. "Everyone in that line either hates or doesn't care about us. Why should we show up with them looking like we care?"

"Because my mum wants photos." John said. "And I want you in them." Sherlock didn't comment again but pursed his lips and sighed. "And will you quit bellyaching! Or I swear I'm going to call Mycroft!" "What could he do?"

"Well I know that he's been giving you puzzles to solve. I know that you love those puzzles. That you'd be bored without them. I'd ask him to stop sending you those puzzles."

"John, what you call 'puzzles' Mycroft calls 'delicate matters of national security'." Sherlock said.

"And what do you call them?" John asked. Sherlock licked his lower lip trying to bite back a smile.

"Puzzles." Sherlock murmured, unable to repress the smile. "In any case, he'd be completely lost without me in some respects. This case is highly engaging."

"I know. You've taken me all the way to London about it." John muttered.

"Well." Sherlock smiled. "It's all in the name of the chase, isn't it?"

"Does he pay you for it?" John asked.

"No."

"He should." "Why should he pay me for something I like to do?"

" 'If you're good at something, never do it for free'." John responded. "If you're the only one who could solve these little riddles that Mycroft's been sending your way, then why don't you charge him?"

"Because money isn't an issue for me."

"It will be once he tells you to find your own flat."

"I thought that we would be moving in together."

"We will… once I'm through with pre-med." John straightened his own gown in the mirror. "And even then, you're going to put up half the rent."

"I still don't want you to go."

"And I still think that you should come with me."

"Maybe I will. Just not now." Sherlock said. He pulled off his cap and looked at his hands. "What about the army?"

John looked away. He still very much wanted to join the army. But there was nothing he wanted less than to leave Sherlock behind.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, alright?" John muttered. Sherlock nodded. John flattened Sherlock's hair and pulled Sherlock into a kiss. There was a tell-tale click of a camera and John looked around and saw his mother with the camera, grinning madly.

"That was perfect! That was completely adorable!"

"Please don't call me adorable, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance. John nudged Sherlock's arm.

"Be polite, it's graduation and it's my mother!" "I'm sorry, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock smiled shrewdly.

"I know that you hate events like this, Sherlock, but I love to scrapbook."

"If you're going to ask me to smile in every photograph—"

"Absolutely not." She said. "It wouldn't be a very good portrait of you at all! Only smile when you mean to. And don't try not to smile."

"Well that's fair, at least." Sherlock said. "I'm very grateful that you allowed me room here."

"It's the happiest John's ever been with a friend." Mrs. Watson said. "And I don't think that it would've made any sense to split you two up."

"Yes, well…" Sherlock inclined his head. "All the same."

"Will your parents be coming to graduation?" She asked. No one had really told Mrs. Watson the extent to which the Holmeses didn't care for Sherlock. Sherlock smiled wryly and answered simply,

"No."

"Oh." She said after waiting a moment for Sherlock to elaborate. "Well."

"We'd better be off." John said. "We don't want to be late."

* * *

><p><strong>So I already pre-labeled all of these chapters but I didn't realize how TINY they would be<strong>

**so here I'm just going to dump a whole lot of chapters on you**

**the pacing gets better I swear**

**TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK DO IT TELL ME PLEASE**


	17. Chapter 17

Graduation was long and boring. People around them were crying, but Sherlock and John mostly picked at their nails and waited for it to be over. When everything had finished up, Sherlock found John immediately and pulled him away to leave.

"Holmes, Watson!" Someone called for them. Sherlock and John turned around, completely surprised. The boy approached him. John recognized him as Greg Lestrade. He played rugby with Lestrade two years ago. The two hadn't spoken much. "Hey. How are you?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock frowned. "Surely you're not here to throw in one last harassment before we're all to go separate ways."

"What?" Lestrade blinked. "No—I was just wondering if you wanted to come to this little graduation party that I'm having at my place."

"No."

"H-Hang on." John said. "Why are you inviting us?"

"Well… it's sort of a group of us who… Well we all sort of thought you were kind of alright but never had the balls to approach you about it. You two sort of live in your own world."

"We had to or we would be susceptible to relentless ridicule." Sherlock growled. John lightly put a hand on Sherlock's.

"Who's going to be there?"

"Oh… not many people." Lestrade scratched his neck. "Me, Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan, Anderson…"

"No." Sherlock said. "No—no, absolutely _not—"_

"Did you say Sally Donovan?"

"Yes."

"Well I thought she'd be going to other graduation parties."

"She is." Lestrade nodded. "But I got her to stop off at my house first. I… I just wanted to invite you."

"I'm not going. I don't care if you want to go, John, I'm not going."

"Why?" John said.

"I'm not rising to their last taunt!" Sherlock frowned, surprised. "Don't tell me that you're seriously considering going—"

"Sherlock, we could just go for a little bi—"

"No."

"But Sherlock if you—"

"_No._"

John sighed deeply. He looked back at Lestrade. "I'm sorry, he's acting childish. So I'll come."

"You—you're going?" Sherlock asked.

"Certainly."

"Alone?"

"Surprisingly enough, I can stand on my own two feet without falling over." John said. He turned to Lestrade. "Is it alright if I come alone?"

"Yeah, certainly." Lestrade responded.

"I'm not going to follow you." Sherlock muttered.

"I didn't ask you to."

"Well that's good because I'm not going to."

"Good."

"Fine." Sherlock hardened his jaw. John smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock found it maddening.

"I'm going to drop Sherlock off at home and then I'll be at your house in an hour or so."

"Excellent." Lestrade said, grinning. "I'll see you then." He turned around and left.

Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock.

"You're actually serious?"

"I told you that I was."

Sherlock grimaced and crossed his arms. He strode over to John's car and sat in the passenger seat, stiff backed, arms still crossed. John chuckled.

"Just drop me off at Mycroft's. When you're finished talking to those oafs you can meet me there."

"You don't know that they're bad."

"You don't know that they're not." Sherlock countered. John shrugged and started the car.

"I wanted to give you your graduation present." Sherlock murmured. "And no, it's not an orgasm."

"I didn't ask!" John blushed.

"You were thinking it."

"I'm eighteen, Sherlock, it's naturally one of the first places my mind goes."

"It's a surprise." Sherlock said. "But I was looking forward giving it to you all the same."

"Well the wait will just make it all the better won't it?"

"No." Sherlock slouched. He glanced over at John and allowed a small smile on his face. "I'll just look for cases to solve while you're off partying."

"Save the world, Sherlock Holmes."

"Only if it is difficult to do so."

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade and a party and that snotnosed Sally Donovan. <strong>

**Pouty!Sherlock is one of my favorites **

**Should I give you six chapters in one day **

**I am so bad at making you guys wait I just want everyone to READ IT**

**TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK**


	18. Chapter 18

The place was small and there were a few people there. Most of the people John didn't know by name, but by face. He often saw them in the library peeking over their books and sitting alone.

"So are you going to university?" Molly asked.

"Yes, and Sherlock's not happy about it." John said. "I'm studying medicine."

"Me too!" Molly said excitedly. "I've always loved dissecting in Biology. It's fascinating how things are put together."

"I agree." John said. "I think I might try surgery. I've got a steady hand, you know."

"Oh, I wouldn't want that." Molly said. "I don't want to be trusted with people's lives like that. I just want a peek inside. I'd like to memorize the way things are put together."

"That's interesting." John said. Molly and John continued to talk about cutting people open for quite some time before Sally Donovan slid in.

"So you and Holmes, then." She said obnoxiously. John closed his eyes and sighed.

"It's been nearly a year and a half, Sally. Is that really a question?"

"I'm still just amazed."

"Please don't insult me, I'm not in the mood."

"What's he like?" Molly asked. "He's so… closed off and mysterious."

"He's like… Sherlock." John shrugged. "He can't help but to be closed off and mysterious. He thinks all the time."

"About what?"

"Everything. He can see everything. He can notice the way your collar turns and tell you how many shirts you have in that color. He could look at your empty knapsack and tell you what classes you take. It's all obvious once he explains it, but he just pieces things together is all."

"Why him?" Sally said. She was less accusatory now.

"I don't know. I don't know why it works, but he's mad and I'm calm and it works so flawlessly that it's frightening."

"How's the sex?" Someone called from the next room. John blushed and bit his lip.

"We don't have… I mean… we don't have sex much because he's asexual and I'm heterosexual."

"Wait… what? How does that work? You're at least bisexual."

"No… I'm not." John said. "I don't find males attractive. I don't see a guy and think that I'd like to have sex with him. I wasn't even interested in dating guys at all. It was just…Sherlock. And if this ever… If this didn't work out then I would marry a woman. He's the only man I've ever… I don't know… wanted to be in a relationship with."

"That's really… weird." Sally said.

"Now when you say… 'much'…." Anderson questioned.

"I can count how many times we had sex on my hands." John said. "Neither of us are really particularly interested in having sex with each other."

"Then why are you with him?" Molly asked.

"Because… We understand and flow around each other so effortlessly that it takes my breath away. I couldn't imagine being with anyone else. Ever." John suddenly raised his eyebrows and then furrowed them. He turned to the door and chuckled. "Lurking, are we?" Sherlock walked through the door.

"How kind of you, John." Everyone looked in surprise. There had barely been any other noise outside and yet John knew that Sherlock was about to enter.

"Did Mycroft drop you off?"

"I'm capable of calling a cab." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You didn't want to come."

"I still don't. I'm taking you with me."

"No you're not. I'm not leaving." John said. "I've only been here for two hours!"

"I haven't got money for another cab, and you've got a car so you're coming home with me."

"No I'm not." John said. "Sit down, and I'll leave when I want to."

Sherlock made to protest but John cut him off with a look. Sherlock scowled and plopped himself down in a chair by the window and crossed his arms.

"Wow…" Sally murmured. "You can just tell him what to do? He wouldn't listen to anyone else."

"No… I suppose he doesn't." John said. "It's nothing much."

"What was that again about being heterosexual?" A girl said from the side. She had soft features and long, strawberry blonde hair.

"I… I am. I just… I don't tend to look at anyone else." John said. He was looking at this girl now. It had been very long since a woman looked his way and he decided to look back. He had no desire to form a bond with any of them because he already had one of the strongest bonds with Sherlock. But there wasn't much he could do to quiet his libido.

"I'm Mary." She said. "And I think you're brilliant, John Watson."

"Thank you very much." John said, a bit shocked. He hadn't felt this way towards a woman in a long time. He didn't like it. He didn't need her. "But I am with Sherlock."

"Oh, don't worry, John." She giggled. "I'm not intending to split up the relationship of the century." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'm only stating that… in another situation… we could've been perfect for each other."

"Well there isn't another situation." Sherlock was suddenly right next to him, his deep voice threatening. "Please stop flaunting your female to procure my partner."

"I wasn't trying to, Sherlock." Mary said. "I was simply stating a fact."

"It's not a fact it's an opinion." Sherlock said. "And I disagree."

"You wouldn't be there to disagree."

"Well I am now." Sherlock bit. "Please. Stop trying."

"Okay… look, both of you." John stepped in. "Mary, you know that I'm in a committed relationship with Sherlock and that I'm not interested. Sherlock, you know that Mary knows that I'm in a committed relationship and you don't have to attack her so harshly. Green is not your color." Sherlock sneered and turned away. Mary sighed and turned away. She turned back for a moment, laying a hand gently on Sherlock's forearm.

"He's the model man, Sherlock. You should count yourself lucky that you have him."

Sherlock looked back at her with conviction in his silver eyes. "Every moment I count next to him is a moment I count lucky."

* * *

><p><strong>Ahh here we go... decent-sized chapter for you<strong>

**I'm just putting this on before I go to school, it's like 6:48 and I should be brushing my teeth but SHERLOCK FIRST**

**okay. Sherlock's a little defensive because John has a sexuality and has the theoretical possibility of being lured away.**

**ALRIGHT BYE**

**edit: I have such a lack of knowledge of British schools it's embarrassing oghdkj don't judge me too harshly please ahurughe uarhwo iaurh**


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock threw his scarf down angrily in Mycroft's flat.

"Five hours. Five hours?" Sherlock huffed. "I don't understand what you could do at a party for five hours."

"You were only there for three of those hours." John shrugged, closing the door softly and slipping off his jacket. Sherlock flopped down on the couch in annoyance before springing up like he was stung by something. He walked into his bedroom quickly and came out of it with a little bag tied with ribbon at the top.

"You give me yours first." Sherlock said, his eyes bright. The annoyance he'd felt by the party was eclipsed by his excitement for the gifts. John smiled and went into Mycroft's room. Mycroft had helped him hide Sherlock's gift. John opened a little trap door underneath Mycroft's personal skink and pulled out a little box. John walked back into the living room and saw that Sherlock was bouncing on his heels.

"Ah! There you are!" He said. "Okay, give me my gift." Sherlock said, putting his gift for John on the table close to himself. John handed over the little black box and Sherlock undid the ribbons and opened it. Sherlock hesitated before lifting the dagger up to his eye level. It was simple—a beautiful silver blade and a leather handle with beautiful embroidery on the edges.

"I started to get worried about you going into the city." John muttered. He leaped excitedly towards Sherlock. "But look, there's a secret canister for poisons—" John untwisted the handle and there was a thick vial with a needle sticking out of the handle. It was golden inside and Sherlock slid out the vial of poison.

"What… what sort of poison is it?"

"Ah." John smiled. "Incredibly rare. It's a poison from a nearly-extinct form of spider in South America. The name of it, I can't pronounce but it's written on the side. Its venom hasn't been widely experimented on, but it's said to be incredibly deadly."

Sherlock's eyes widened and looked to John quickly, his mouth open.

"John…I—" He breathed. "This is fantastic!"

"I really hoped that you might like it." John said. He blinked quickly before slipping the detached blade-handle from Sherlock's fingers. He unsnapped a few of the thin leather straps that held a distinctive silver band at the butt of the dagger. It dropped into John's hand. Sherlock picked it up.

" 'Sherlock Holmes'…" Sherlock read the engraving on the inside of the band. " 'and John Watson.' John…" Sherlock smiled. "This is more than I could've imagined."

"Well… we never get gifts for each other and I've been saving up money and I figured… why not spend it on you? Also, I knew that the spider venom would be enough… but you know me. Sentimental." Sherlock was assembling the knife, everything besides the ring. It fit snugly on Sherlock's right hand ring finger.

"Okay!" He said excitedly. "Open mine, now open mine." Sherlock thrust John's gift into his chest. John chuckled. He opened the bag slowly and pulled out a square box. He unwrapped the bow at the top and pulled out a tiny silver box, able to fit in his palm. There were several subtle tiny blue crystals around the edge of this tiny box. It was latched at one end and had a hole in the back at the other. Tiny legs on each of the corners curled underneath it. Engraved on the top was simply…_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson._ John looked underneath the delicate box and saw a detachable key. He put the little key into the back of the box and wound it three times. He opened it slowly and an eerie yet beautiful music-box rendition of their relationship tinkered throughout the room. Inside the box, John could see the intricate music box turning and chiming out its beautiful melody. On the inside on the top of the lid behind a glass cover, there was a photo of Sherlock and John, one of the candid ones that John had once in passing said that he liked. It was one of those rare times that Mrs. Watson had taken a photo when Sherlock was his most vulnerable. Sherlock was staring at John with such a conviction in his eyes that every time John looked at it, he felt his heart warm. John was looking at Sherlock, mid-speech and smiling widely, his arms raised in the conversation. This was how everyone usually saw John. They saw John as the man who drunk in everything Sherlock said and worshipped Sherlock for it. This photo proved that Sherlock was just as much infatuated with John as John was with Sherlock.

The beautiful melody had tinkered slowly to a stop and John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes searching Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiled.

"I've got my own too." Sherlock pulled out another small music box from deep in his pocket. The gems around the corners were a deeper blue and this box was golden as opposed to silver. He opened it and it played the same melody. The photo in the lid surprised John. He expected to see a photo of John drooling after Sherlock and Sherlock looking magnificently brilliant… but it wasn't. It was just a photo of John, looking off-camera at something. His eyes were half-lidded and his smile was lazy, his head was resting in his hand and he was wearing the sunset of some warm spring day.

"I… I'm just going to miss you, is all." Sherlock responded. "That's why I'm allowing myself to be so sentimental." He murmured.

"Sherlock… they're absolutely breathtaking…" He clutched his music box tightly.

"Can you keep this our secret?" Sherlock muttered, searching John's eyes. "Don't show anyone this box. I haven't shown anyone these boxes. I've had them created under an alias and I engraved them myself."

"Why?"

"I… want to imagine that these could be ours. Only the two of us in the entire world have seen our completed boxes." He said. "It's extremely romantic and a bit out of my playing field, but I'm sincere in my wishes."

"I won't tell anyone about this. I'll just say that your gift to me was sex." John said. "My mum's going to be upset—she knows how much I spent on that dagger."

"What? Oh, no I have a second gift for you." Sherlock reached into one of his pockets. He pulled out another small box. John opened it and a pair of tickets sat on a bed of velvet.

"What are…" John's eyebrows raised. "Are these to an orchestra?"

"They certainly are." Sherlock smiled.

"Does that… does that say 'VIP section'?"

"It most certainly does."

"Is this in Italy?" John said, his eyes saucers and his mouth twitching upwards to an unbelievable smile.

"You're doing that on purpose now," Sherlock sighed. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him deeply. Sherlock responded and John backed away and buried his head in Sherlock's neck. This summer. This summer was going to be fantastic.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are impossibly perfect." John muttered. "I don't know how you do it."

"I don't." Sherlock said. "I insult you, I sometimes under appreciate you, I conduct experiments on you without you first knowing, I make you frustrated and I'm—"

"That's my definition of perfect. If you didn't make me upset now and again, I would wonder what was wrong. You're fantastic to me, Sherlock."

"And you're irreplaceable." Sherlock murmured into John's mouth. "My John."

* * *

><p><strong>wow so when I wrote this story it was supposed to stop around here, but then I just got caught up and I couldn't stop. Nineteen chapters of plotless fluff? Nah. How about nineteen chapters of build up!<strong>

**Okay, in my effort for dramatizing the plot, my facts got a bit skewed and they sort of became permanent once the plot had turned, and everything- oh you'll see. Point is, I got caught up, I should stop addressing my mistakes and just let you READ THE STORY OKAY okay!**

**I might put up chapter 20 as well. It's a short chapter so...**


	20. Chapter 20

Up until this very moment, Sherlock had randomly stated that he did not want John to leave. John reassured him by saying that he didn't want to leave Sherlock as much as Sherlock didn't want him to leave. Sherlock would kiss him randomly, sometimes even in public, which is something that shocked John, but he was not disobliging when the occasion arose.

"I'm going to med school, I'm not dying." John chuckled, clutching his bag. They were at the train station and John was leaving for college any moment now. Sherlock held his hands and looked down at the ground. Sherlock nodded smally and then looked up into John's eyes. His eyes were so intense, so sincere; he was streaming his thoughts passionately through his eyes, more so than he ever had before. Words seemed to linger on his tongue, but he leaned forward and kissed John with such a sincere passion that John finally felt the pain that Sherlock was feeling.

"I'll only be gone for a couple months." John said, cupping Sherlock's face. "I'll be back for Christmas, okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I still don't think you should go."

"And I still think you should've come with me."

Sherlock pursed his lips and landed one last chaste kiss on John's forehead.

"Go on, doctor." Sherlock smiled. "I'll be waiting here for you."

"Promise?" John joked.

"Until the very end." Sherlock replied seriously. John frowned. The call for the train to board played over the intercom.

"Sherlock… is everything alright?"

"John, go. Your train is about to board."

"I'll call you tonight." John said seriously. "And you'll tell me what's got you all serious."

"I'm usually serious."

"No, you're usually flippant."

"Final call!" the attendants shouted. John hugged Sherlock one last time before running off. John waved from the train as Sherlock faded away in the distance. Sherlock stared at the train until he couldn't see it anymore. He closed his eyes for a long time, found a pillar next to a trashcan and sat there until night fell. Mycroft found him there and took him home.

"Did you tell him about the cases that you've been doing?"

"No." Sherlock said, tight-lipped.

"Why not?" "I don't want him to worry." he mumbled. "They're only slightly dangerous." "Sherlock, you nearly got yourself killed. A man with a gun had you cornered in an alley. It's lucky that I sent the police in after you."

"Luck." Sherlock sniffed. "I'll be fine." Sherlock said uncertainly.

"You still should have told him."

"I'll tell him when I need to." Sherlock replied, standing reluctantly and following Mycroft to his car. Sherlock closed his eyes in the back of the swaying car, picturing John's concerned face. He dictated everything about John to his memory. He would have to- he wouldn't see John for another few months.

That was the last time Sherlock and John saw each other face to face.

* * *

><p><strong>Tiny chapter. <strong>

**What did you think?**


	21. Chapter 21

The end started something like this. John and Sherlock had spoken on the phone frequently at the beginning of the semester. It became less and less when John was buried with work and had to devote his time to his studies. One of the worst parts of everything was that he couldn't come home that Christmas as he had promised because he needed to catch up on work that he had accumulated. He cried on Christmas day, half due to panic of the piles of work that he had, the other half because he had missed Sherlock and his mother more than he could express. He still missed Sherlock often and would sneak away from studying to call Sherlock. Sometimes he would pull out Sherlock's music box and play it until he fell asleep—until he got a roommate. To his word, John had never shown a soul the music box that Sherlock had gotten him.

Eventually, nearing the summer, he wouldn't even be able to have conversations with Sherlock. Summer, John swore. During the summer he _had _to go home. He would drink in Sherlock, he would lie in bed with Sherlock until he had memorized Sherlock's every feature. While imagining these things, John would call right before he passed out and murmur a goodnight. Sherlock would chuckle and return the sentiment.

That was one of the things that John wished he could do over. He wished that he could've stayed on the phone forever and just listened to Sherlock talk about nothing. He wished that he could spend all day listening to Sherlock. He wished that he had never went to college. John Watson wished a lot of things, but wishing did absolutely nothing to change the events that had already happened.

* * *

><p>John's roommate was out that night and John was trying to catch a few moments of much-needed sleep. He was lying on the couch, the TV off. John was stroking his music box and thought about opening it and listening to it, but he heard footsteps approaching his room. He stowed the tiny silver box into an inside pocket in his trousers and closed his eyes. He heard the click of the door and the slow steps to the room where John was resting on the couch.<p>

"John Watson?" A high voice called. John sat up and pretended to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He looked at the man standing a few feet away. He was wearing a suit and tie, they looked incredibly expensive, but he wore them loosely as though he wasn't bothered with their expense. He was rich. His boyish face seemed to be transparent to the sinister nature behind it. John was instantly on high alert. "Jim Moriarty."

"What are you doing in my room?" John said slowly, righting himself.

"Oh…" he shrugged. "It's just on my calendar here, you see." He said, pulling out a little notebook from inside his jacket. He stowed it back in the coat. "My meeting with you."

"And why did you want to meet me?" John asked slowly. Moriarty shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I want you to make a phone call."

"No."

"You don't even know who I want you to call." Moriarty pouted.

"I don't care. Get out of my room." He said. Moriarty laughed, high and cold. The sound nearly made John shiver.

"Oh, all reports were correct about you, John. You certainly would make an excellent soldier." He pulled the gun out of his pocket and pointed it to John's head. John's eyes widened and his heart pounded. His senses became razor sharp and John was suddenly aware of every possible exit and how Moriarty strategically positioned himself to be in between all of them.

"If you do forgive me," Moriarty drawled. "I got bored of the foreplay." He pulled out John's phone with his other free hand. "Your little boyfriend… Sherlock? He's been causing me a bit of grief recently." John instantly became enraged at the mention of Sherlock. "He's getting in my way."

"If you've done anything to him you slimy bastard-"

"Ooh!" Moriarty giggled. "Feisty! I haven't done anything to him yet, Johnny. That's why I'm here. It's what I'm about to do that will help solve my problem."

"What do you want with me?" John said. Moriarty handed John his phone.

"I want you to make a call. But not just yet." He said. He handed John an earpiece. "Put this in." John hesitated, but Moriarty sighed and took the safety off the gun. John put it in his ear.

"What do you want with me?" John repeated, more forcefully.

"I want you to break up with him." Jim smiled. "There's no one in the world who could harm Sherlock as much as you could."

"No." John spat. "I'm not doing it."

"I'll kill you if you don't."

"Then kill me." John responded.

"Bleeding Heart Watson. Although, I'm not giving you an option." Moriarty responded. He sighed. "I've got a man- superb marksman- he could shoot a thread through a needle from two thousand meters away." He shrugged. "He's positioned to shoot Sherlock, right now, in his brother's flat." John's heart fell into his stomach and he swallowed. Moriarty started to pace. "He does like to sit by the window staring at his phone, you know. It's a problem he has. He _misses_ you." Moriarty mocked. John glared.

"You're bluffing." he muttered.

"Try me." Moriarty replied dangerously. "Now, here are the rules. I will tell you the exact words that you are to say. You have to make me believe that you really don't love him anymore." Moriarty shrugged, waving the gun around. "Or I'll order for him to be shot while he's speaking to you. Not in the head. I want you to hear him gasp your name as he drowns in his own blood." Jim's eyes glinted in homicidal glee and something deep down in John knew that Moriarty wasn't lying. It could be the manic eyes or the body language but somehow, everything about this man screamed 'insane'. "And then, of course, I'll shoot you in the head. But if you don't, and I believe it… then you both live."

"Why?" John said.

"It'll hurt him more." Moriarty said easily. "He'll know if you died. He'd take comfort in your death, because at least you can't find someone else. No. I'll keep you alive, John. But only if you break up with him."

"You make it sound so trivial." John said.

"I assure you that I'm not taking this lightly." Moriarty said. "I've had measures put in place to assure that this goes without a flaw. Now stop dallying and make your decision." John closed his eyes. He took the phone.

"Of course." Moriarty said. "Make me believe you, now." He half whispered. Moriarty put his own phone up to his ear, listening in on the conversation. His finger was poised over the kill button for Sherlock. John tried to calm his raging nerves, but he couldn't. The phone was ringing. Every hair on John's neck was standing up.

"John? John!" Sherlock said happily. "I was hoping you would call today. I've been rather busy with a few of Mycroft's cases—"

"Sherlock, stop." Moriarty said. John repeated it, trying to still his shaky voice.

"John?" Sherlock muttered. "John are you alright?"

"N-no. No I'm not." He said. "I've got to speak with you." There was a pause where Sherlock stopped and waited for John to make his intent clear. John glanced over at Moriarty who began muttering. "I've… been thinking about things lately."

"You shouldn't do that."

"Sherlock, I'm serious." John said. "I've been thinking about… about us." _"Of how we're out of time. Of how I'm so, so sorry about what I may say. They're not my words." _John's heart was pounding in his chest and his limbs began to feel like jello. There was no stopping this. There was no stopping this…. "And I think… that it's become too much."

There was incredible pause. John could nearly hear Sherlock's brain spinning at a million miles an hour.

"What?" Sherlock finally whispered. He almost never asked someone to repeat themselves.

"I'm not doing this anymore, Sherlock!" Moriarty's words were bitter on his tongue. "The truth is… I haven't been calling you a lot less recently because I've been trying to see if I can live without you. And I can." _"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm doing this for you, I'm doing this to save you. You don't know it now, and maybe you'll know it later but… I'm so sorry." _John was trying his hardest to keep from crying out, but it was proving difficult. Moriarty sent him a warning glance every time his voice cracked. "I got tired of it. Tired of this codependency we had. This time away has really cleared my head and I… I don't think we should see each other anymore." The worst part about it was that these words were so sincere and soft… if John were ever to break up with Sherlock, these would be the words that he would say. Except they wouldn't. Because John would never break up with Sherlock. Sherlock was quiet for the longest time. John had to dig his fingernails in his palm to keep from crying.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said eventually. "Are you being held captive?"

John bit his lip painfully. Sherlock had to know, he _had _to know that these weren't John's words. But Moriarty was feeding on that tiny inkling in Sherlock that whispered 'John doesn't love you as much as you love him.'

Moriarty sighed on the com and John repeated it. "No, Sherlock. Not everything is life or death." _"You fucking bastard, Moriarty."_

"John, don't worry, I'll help you. I'll save you."

"No, no- Sherlock." John tried his hardest to sound exasperated. "I'm fine. I'm just… done with all these games." Again a silence. Such a heavy silence. It weighed down John's ears with its emptiness. Moriarty was covering his mouth and giggling. John was filled with a mixture of boiling rage and deep sadness.

"Please…" Sherlock whispered. It damn near killed John. "John…you can't mean it."

"I mean it, Sherlock. I'm sorry… I really am. But I can't do all this anymore." _"I want to be with you for my entire life."_

"No!" His voice was shaking. John could hear how close to tears Sherlock was. "You couldn't even do this in person? " Sherlock was shaking. He could hear that.

"I don't want you to try and change my mind." "John… Please, John—"

"Please stop crying." John said softly, digging his nails into his thigh. "I'm just trying to regain my mind." _"Don't believe a word he says, Sherlock. Please… stop crying…."_

"I love you." Sherlock whispered. John froze in the spot. His eyes widened and his mouth hung open, shaky breaths stopped when he heard Sherlock speak. In the three years that they had been together, Sherlock had never uttered those words in that order. He never thought he needed to. They were the final words; they brought forth too much emotion. John pulled the phone away from his mouth and choked a sob. He couldn't do this. This was torture. This was worse than torture. Jim was still giggling madly and motioned for John to put the phone back to his ear. Sherlock was practically sobbing on the other end.

"Did you hear me?" He said delicately. "I said that I love you, John. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I'm sorry…" John said, his voice catching. Moriarty glared at him. "… but it doesn't." _"I love you too." _John couldn't control himself. He pulled the phone away from his mouth again and took several shaky breaths of air. He wanted nothing more than to tell Sherlock everything. For as long as John Watson had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never known Sherlock to cry so openly. But here he was. Crying in earnest.

"Don't do this John, please!" He cried. "Don't!"

"It's already been done. I'm leaving tomorrow." _"What?_" John looked up at Moriarty quickly and Moriarty winked. "I've joined the army. I've always wanted to."

"Tomorrow!" Sherlock hissed. "That's it? You're just going leave? Not one last goodbye?"

"This is my last goodbye." John said softly. _"I can't believe what's happening. He'll be alive… but I'll be God knows where."_

"Please, John. Please, please…"

"Please stop begging, Sherlock." John said. _"Moriarty you goddamn bastard. I'm going to rip your throat out."_

Sherlock made a choking noise like an animal being stepped on.

"I can't." Sherlock whispered. John let out a few sobs on the phone, unable to keep them back. He covered his mouth quickly and looked to Moriarty, pleading with his eyes. Moriarty's face was ripe with rage and he stepped towards him murderously. He held up his own phone, finger on a button threateningly.

"Stop doing this!" John shrieked of his own accord. "I'm done, Sherlock, I'm done! Okay? Accept that and we both can move on." Moriarty smirked. He pulled at John's strings again and John prattled the information he was being told. "Please don't try to find me. It'll be easier for the both of us if you just don't."

"This'll be the last time you ever speak to me." Moriarty cooed in John's ear. John's throat seized up. "Say it John."

"This'll be… the last time you ever speak to me…" John repeated.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Moriarty hissed.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." John whispered.

"…Goodbye John." Sherlock's voice was less than a breath. "I love yo—" The phone disconnected. John was in too much shock to completely feel what he had just done to Sherlock. He sat motionless on the floor. Moriarty smirked.

"Job well done, John. We'll be checking your little improv for any code. Though I'm fairly certain that you didn't slip any in there." He clasped his hands together. "So. Any questions?" "You can go to hell." John spat.

"You don't want to know where you're headed?"

"The only thing I want is to see a bullet hole in your skull." John was feeling rather vicious. He wasn't weepy yet, When he had cried on the phone, it was because he could hear Sherlock and the things he was saying were hurting him. He could feel Sherlock breaking. John didn't want to think about how Sherlock would try to cope. He couldn't think about it. He wouldn't think about it.

"Goodie." Jim clapped. "It'll be a surprise then."

"Whoever you are, Sherlock will find you out. He'll find you out, you son of a bitch."

"No he won't." Jim inched forward. "Sure, he's scratching the surface. He would've been able to find me, certainly, but he'll never be able to stop me. Especially not now with him being emotionally crippled."

"Fuck you."

"You gave him emotions, John Watson and then single handedly ripped them out!" He giggled. "My, you are _cold—"_

John lunged at Moriarty but he fired a warning shot into the floor. John's eyes flew open; his every sense was on high alert.

"Someone will have heard that…." John whispered.

"Yes, of course they will have." Moriarty shrugged. "What you seem to be unaware of is that this entire building is empty. I'm more powerful than you can even begin to imagine, John."

"Enlighten me."

"Do you think I'd actually fall for that?" Jim said.

John shrugged. "I guess not."

"I am Sherlock Holmes before he met you. He could have just as easily joined me before you came around and made him inherently good. Boring. But what's fantastic about that is that you became his one little weak spot! The lynchpin to his fantastic mind. And I just removed it." Moriarty giggled madly. "You don't understand just how special you are, John Watson. Do you know just how much finagling I've had to do to get you to a certain place? Oh this is going to be so much fun!" He shouted, rolling back and forth on his feel while smiling. "Now. You're going to be late for a flight." He slapped John across the face with his gun and John fell to the ground, knocked out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was shaking and crying. These emotions were taking over him and he was afraid of it. He was staring to feel that John was moving away from him this year. He had no idea why his body was betraying him by feeling emotions so strongly in a moment when he needed them gone. Mycroft stood in the doorframe, leaning against it, his eyes filled to the brim with concern for his brother.<p>

"How long have you known?" Sherlock's voice was weak and sad.

"He signed papers three weeks ago. I looked. It's his signature."

"This can't be real." Sherlock whispered. "Something is wrong, something is _wrong-"_

"Sherlock." Mycroft said softly. "I'm sorry-"

"No!" Sherlock screamed, his face contorted in pain. His cheeks were flushed spottily, his teeth barred and his eyes flaming red. "No… Mycroft. I love him! I love him…"

"Sherlock-"

"It's not FAIR!" He screeched, overturning a chair and kicking it blindly across the room. He slid all of his papers and things to the floor angrily and accidentally cut his hand on a pencil, but didn't notice the pain. Blood smeared all over his papers. "It's not… it's not fair…" He sobbed, sinking to the ground. Mycroft was astounded. This level of emotion was something that Sherlock had never displayed in his life. Ever. He laid in a little ball, his eyes closed. The papers were everywhere.

Eventually, very eventually, Sherlock lay completely motionless on the ground. Mycroft moved him to his bed and pulled the sheets around him. He was completely emotionless, the only remnants of his rage were the red in his eyes and the cut on his hand. For a moment, a single moment, Sherlock resurfaced from the pools of his stupor to utter a single thing.

"This is the inevitable fate for those who care, isn't it?" He breathed. "This whole business is… I don't know how I succumbed to those… to…" He turned over and buried his face into a pillow. He was done. He was not going to try and feel a single emotion again. They weighed him down, they hindered him—John had taught him that emotions were good to have, but Sherlock had handed him the tools for his own demise. Sherlock thought that maybe he'd fix himself up in a day, shed the coat that was John and arise as good as new in the morning. Emotions can lift you up, but they can only raise you as far as they can crush you.

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><p><strong>...so<strong>


	22. Chapter 22

John was swimming. He was swimming in a cool lake that was crisp and fresh. The warm summer sun was high in the clear sky. John closed his eyes and felt content. Sherlock was sitting in a tree on a branch that was over the water. He was lying flat in a bathing suit and smiling sleepily at John. John flipped on his back and floated towards the tree so he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at him. He was smiling so serenely. John felt a swooping feeling in his stomach when he looked at Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock's expression dropped, his face showed his hurt. He was about to cry- how could he be about to cry? John tried to get out of the water to reach Sherlock, but found that the water had become as thick as syrup. John tried to call out to Sherlock, but his throat seized up and he was wracked with coughs. He looked back up at Sherlock who was convulsing with tears. John tried to tell him to stop, afraid that he would fall out of the tree, but he couldn't say a word. Sherlock fell from the tree unconscious, and splashed into the water. John was sobbing, still unable to scream. He tried his best to get to the spot where Sherlock had fell, the molasses water weighing him down. By the time he got there, Sherlock was gone. John was alone. The syrupy water had turned into sand. John was waist-deep in dusty sand and the sky faded from it's delicate blue to a harsh, angry red.

"_It's nothing personal, Johnny boy…" _The red sky hissed. _"It's just business…"_

John jerked awake, his eyes darting nervously across the ceiling. His nostrils were filled with the stale scent of linoleum.

"He's awake!" a young man sitting on the cot next to him exclaimed. "Welcome to the conscious world!" A doctor spotted John waking up and she checked his vitals.

"Not exactly the best first impression, young man." She said kindly. "Welcome to training, Mr. Watson."

"You got here a little late. I'm Milo Wallace." He held his hand out to shake and John took it. "Apparently you'd had an allergic reaction to some drug that your cousin gave you. He was all upset."

John's stomach dropped. "Did he have dark hair and sort of evil looking eyes?"

"Yeah." Milo said, frowning. "Don't you know what he looks like?"

"Just trying to remember which cousin. He's got a brother, you see." John said, evasively. "What did I miss, exactly?"

"Introductions, where we'll be sleeping and who your platoon will be. We're separated based on where we want to be useful in the field. Most of us are soldiers, but there are some kids, like my pal Roger, who wants to go into the engineering aspect of it. You want to be a doctor, right?"

John nodded. "I've only been through one year of medical school." John said.

"That's more than some of us here." He said. "I'm looking to be a soldier so I'm not going to be with you during those training sessions, but for everything else I think we're going to be stuck together."

"Is that why you're here now?" John said.

"Yes."

"Well." John shrugged. He threw his legs over the hospital bed. Suddenly everything hit him—everything he had said to Sherlock, the threat that was on his life—everything. John jerked back as though punched in the stomach, his heart racing and his breath stopped.

"Woah, Watson…" Milo said, leaning in. "Are you alright?"

"I—" John clutched his head, panic creeping in on him.

"Man… the PTSD isn't until after we've seen battle…" Milo joked tentatively.

"John Watson?" a man with a straight jaw and muddy brown eyes searched the room. John stood up. "I'm Captain Dowinger."

"Yes, sir?" He said, trying to push his fear over for a moment.

"I need you to come with me." He said, turning on heel. John followed obediently. John's heart was hammering. A million different possibilities ran through John's mind. Was Sherlock dead? Did they know that he was forced into this? Did they catch Moriarty? Was he taking John to Moriarty right now? Was he equipping John with some sort of tracking device so they would know where he was at all times? Captain Dowinger opened a door to his office and John stepped inside the cold box.

He walked behind the desk and rummaged through the drawer. He placed the tiny silver music box that Sherlock had given him on the table. John's heart beat even faster. Did Moriarty give that to the Captain? Did Moriarty know about that? The Captain knew about it, who else did?

"What is this?"

"That's a music box, sir." John said, staring at it longingly. He couldn't have it taken away from him. It was his last link to Sherlock and he wouldn't have it taken away from him. He couldn't. He'd run out of here with it if he could.

"Why was it in an inside pocket in your trousers?" He asked plainly.

"I… I'm not allowed to show it to anyone."

"Why aren't you allowed to show anyone this box?"

"Because Sherlock asked me not to, sir." John said quietly.

"Why did he ask you not to show anyone this box?"

"It was one of the only times that he was sentimental." John said, chuckling sadly. He tried to still his gaze and he looked at the Captain, begging with his eyes. Captain Dowinger softened his hard eyes.

"Open it for me, please, Mr. Watson." He commanded. John obeyed. He stepped forward and unhooked the key from the bottom and wound up the box. He unlatched the front and opened the tiny box. Its beautiful tinkering music haunted the room and John had to bite his lip and look somewhere other than the box. He couldn't look at the photo of Sherlock gazing at him so longingly.

Captain Dowinger examined the open box and looked from it to John.

"Is this… is he your lover?"

"He… was." John said broken. "I… He… it's…" John shook his head and cleared his thoughts. "He didn't want me to go into the Army and I told him that I wanted to. But I told him to be in a relationship wouldn't be wise so I broke it off with him, sir."

"And yet you still carry around this keepsake."

"It… was a tentative split." John said, his jaw set. He was determined to create the calluses necessary to say things without a shaking tone. The Army was certainly a place to create just those calluses.

"I should confiscate this artifact."

"No-!" John said, his eyes flew open, before covering his mouth. "I'd… really… _really _appreciate to have it back, sir. Please." The Captain eyed him.

"This is just between you and me, alright?" Captain said, sitting down. "I know that you obviously still care about this… Sherlock Holmes. You want to keep this keepsake to remember him by. I have nothing wrong with that—men keep certain things that their women gave them to remind them of what they have waiting. But this isn't a woman. And I suggest that you keep that private. The boys here don't take too kindly to homosexuals. My son is gay, so I understand that there's nothing wrong about it, but… I would suggest you keep this a low profile."

"I was going to anyway." John said, seriously. "After all, we're not a couple anymore and… no one is supposed to see the box."

"Well I've seen it, and I won't breathe a word to anyone about it." The Captain said seriously. "But please don't cause trouble, sleeping in a room with other men."

"I… I would never, sir!" John said, frowning. "This is a professional setting!" John wasn't even going to bother trying to explain 'the only exception' rule with Sherlock.

"Okay, well we've had trouble in the past, alright? It just needed to be said. Captain Dowinger closed the little box and handed it over to John. John felt its weight in his hands and quickly stowed it into his pants.

"Now get changed. And get rest. You're starting boot camp tomorrow at 0500." He said. "Good luck."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." John said. He felt like he should salute or something before leaving the room but he had no knowledge of how to do so, so he just left and returned to the hospital wing.

"Hey!" Milo said happily. "There you are! What did he want?"

"Just telling me that I'm starting boot camp tomorrow." John mumbled. Milo shrugged.

"I could've told you that." He was a bright-eyed boy, and he made John feel so much older than nineteen. John thumbed the cold silver box in his pocket and let Milo talk at him. He ached for Sherlock but didn't let his emotions show on his face. By the end of this whole ordeal, he'd be an expert of hiding his true feelings.

* * *

><p><strong>I have this terrible problem where I emotionally cripple my characters<strong>

**I can't help it**

**it must be done**


	23. Chapter 23

_Three Months Later_

Sherlock had not left the bed other than to pee and occasionally Mycroft would stick food under his nose and he would force Sherlock to eat it. Very occasionally Sherlock would. He would drink his fill from the tap in the bathroom and shuffle back to his bed. Nyquil helped him to have a dreamless sleep. He slept as much and as long as possible so he could forget that he was alive. Once he hated sleeping with a passion, now he couldn't get enough. He wanted to sleep because when he was awake he was aware of all the things he had lost. He hated himself for being such a slave to his emotions, but John had left him so raw and empty that he couldn't help but to bow to his human nature to mourn. Mycroft would sometimes come in and yell at him, but Sherlock couldn't find it in him to care. Mycroft threatened to kick him out, but Sherlock knew that this had no conviction behind it.

This particular day, Mycroft approached Sherlock quietly.

"Would you like to hear a report written about John Watson?" Mycroft muttered. Sherlock moved to look at Mycroft. Mycroft looked at the sheet in front of him. " 'John Watson is a born soldier. The mixture of determination and skill benefit him. He is mindful of the task at hand, excels physically and he seems emotionally stable enough to be proactive at the sight of gore. He has a steady hand and a bright mind. Watson does not say much, but his mannerisms depict nothing but the utmost respect to his superiors and a calm tolerance to his fellow soldier. He is the fastest learner out of all of my medical students, and I am certain the he could complete any task handed to him with not only skill, but the grace that is necessary.' " Mycroft finished. "It seems he was right to go into the Army, he certainly is flourishing there."

"That's mine." Sherlock slurred, sleep-addled. "That's my John."

"Not anymore, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "You need to work on some cases. I have several that you would find fascinating." "Doubtful."

"They're a complete conundrum so the police aren't following up. And every day there is data lost." Mycroft said. "You're going to miss these opportunities."

"I'll miss them, then." Sherlock grumbled, tucking himself into the very-used blankets. "And I meant that the person they described was my John. He was the John that I knew, not someone under his name. I had an inkling that he was stolen away and threatened or something of the sort."

"Why would that happen?"

Sherlock smiled wryly.

"Because of me."

"Well he's not, alright?" Mycroft said. "he's very much there of his own choice, he's thriving in this environment. He's doing well without you, and you should do well without him."

"I can't."

"The hell that you can't." Mycroft snapped. "You're Sherlock Holmes, you can do whatever the hell you want."

"I need help."

"I'm here to help you." Mycroft said seriously.

"Not your help." Sherlock said. He sat up, the Nyquil slowly working its way out of his system. "I'll… I'll stop this mourning period. I'm going out and I expect to have a full desk of case files when I come back, alright?"

Mycroft blinked in utter shock. "Oh… yes. Yes, of course."

Sherlock nodded and walked to the bathroom, his feet like cinderblocks and his legs like noodles. He stripped off his clothing as he approached the bathroom, getting ready to scrub the stink off of him.

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft isn't trying to hurt Sherlock by telling him that John doesn't love him, but you do understand that it's been three months since John's call to Sherlock and he is still moping about it.<strong>

**So he's going to try and help himself.**


	24. Chapter 24

"What? What are you doing here?" Anderson said, his nose scrunched up like he'd smelled something terrible. It was the way Sherlock always saw Anderson. He was doubtful that the little rat-man even had another face.

"Do you still sell?" Sherlock said evenly. Anderson's sneer was lost to a look of surprise. He looked down the road both ways. He ushered Sherlock to come in before shutting the door behind him.

"I heard you were working for the police." Anderson said, his gaze hard and accusatory.

"I assist them on murder cases, something so small as a drug dealer doesn't bother me." Sherlock sniffed. "The only reason I didn't rat you out while in high school is because I thought that you may be of use to me in the future. See? I was right."

"Well what do you want to buy?" He said. "I've got all sorts of brands of weed—"

"Cocaine." He said simply. "Do you have any cocaine?"

Anderson's eyebrows raised high. "You… are you going to a party or something?"

"No."

"Have you ever smoked weed before?"

"No."

"Then why are you starting off with cocaine?" Anderson said, flabbergasted. Sherlock ground his teeth before hissing,

"If you don't give me a straight answer I swear that I will take my business elsewhere."

"I… well I have a little bit. It's only half a gram, but…" Anderson left the room, He returned with a little baggie with pure white powder at the bottom. "My customers aren't really interested in coke. I mean, I sell it, but it's usually just a tiny amount—"

"How much." Sherlock interrupted. "How much would half a gram be?"

"Erm… 25 pounds, I'd say—" Sherlock held out a crisp fifty and Anderson took it slowly, speechless.

"Hold on…" he murmured. "I'll get your change…"

Sherlock considered the innocent white powder, bringing the bag close to his nose. Anderson came back with 25, frowning.

"What does John say about this?" Anderson asked. Sherlock clenched his jaw and sent a sharp glare at Anderson.

"He doesn't say anything about it."

"Are you sharing with him?"

"No, this is just for me."

"What, and he's just letting this happen? He doesn't seem the type of bloke to—"

"He's gone, alright! He's gone." Sherlock snarled. "Anderson you have no clue how much willpower it has taken me to get out of bed and across town this morning. This trek is the product of the conscious part of two weeks preparation. So help me, if you ask me one more question about my personal life I am sending an anonymous tip to the police."

Anderson reeled, grimacing. "Alright! I was just curious."

"You're an idiot." Sherlock growled. He sat down at Anderson's kitchen table and pulling out John's dagger from inside his jacket. He unscrewed the handle and revealed a dismantled syringe. The spider venom that had once occupied the inside of the dagger had long since gone—Sherlock had experimented on it to his heart's content. He had retrieved interesting data from the venom as well. Sherlock had purchased the syringe a month ago, and had not opened it until just before leaving Mycroft's flat. He had sterilized it with heat in his bathroom, just in case there was anything that the packaging had let through.

"No… you can't do it here—"

"I want to be around people for the first time, so I can gauge my reaction. Just in case I have a negative reaction."

"Well go find someone else, I don't want to be your sitter."

"Oh my god, Anderson, it's just this one time." Sherlock glared, midway through preparing the solution. "I have no one else."

"Fine." Anderson growled. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and his jacket, rolled up his button-down shirt sleeve and tied his arm off at the elbow with a tourniquet he had brought from home. He found a vein and injected himself with the needle.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. He put the empty syringe back into his dagger handle along with the cocaine. He fastened it back on and laid it down on the table.

"How long before it takes effect?"

"Well it should be pretty soon, considering that you've injected it as opposed to snorting it."

"I didn't want to dull any of my senses, especially my smell."

"Well all of your senses are about to heighten." Anderson said. "Though usually to heighten senses, I would recommend speed."

"Speed isn't strong enough." Sherlock said. "It gives me massive headaches and _why isn't it working yet_?" Sherlock frowned in confusion before the room slid. Sherlock's eyes widened as everything came to him all at once. The stains on Anderson's shirt spoke of where he'd been, how long he'd had the shirt and what he preferred to eat. He looked at the sink and could tell what Anderson had for dinner three weeks ago. He could see and hear _everything—_it was like being a god. He knew everything so clearly as though he could see its history before his eyes. Sherlock didn't doubt that if he stared long enough, he'd be able to see its future as well as its past.

Sherlock grabbed at the table, his eyes darting around. He stood frantically, he was filled with a sudden urge to move—he needed to move, he needed to do _something—_

"How is it?" Anderson said from a million miles away. Sherlock looked at him.

"I feel brilliant." Sherlock gasped, still trying to keep up with his mind.

"Not surprising." Anderson sniffed. "Are you alright now, can you leave?"

"I can fly." Sherlock said, blinking.

"No you can't." He sighed. "You're not driving are you?"

"No, I'll walk."

"Don't you live on the other side of town? That's like twelve miles."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. He turned to look at Anderson. He swore that he could see his unintelligent little thoughts.

"Well, I'll call you a cab." He said. Do you think you're good enough to tell the cabbie your address?"

"Certainly." Sherlock breathed. "Yes. Of course, I am." Anderson shook his head and left the room to call a cab. Sherlock stood nervously, scratching at his fingers, his eyes wide and bright.

"Alright, it should be here in a minute or so." Anderson called. "You call me when you're out, alright?"

"Certainly." Sherlock said. "I have your number."

"How did you get that?"

"I know everything, Anderson. Don't forget." He said. He was only half-joking. He felt as though he knew everything. He knew _everything_. And now he had his willpower back to prove it.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry I tried to post it last night but fanfiction was being a complete butt<strong>

**right so **

**Cocaine and Sherlock Holmes are just best friends you know**


	25. Chapter 25

_Dear John._

_You shouldn't be allowed to worry your mother like that! I was rather upset when I realized that I was one of the last people to hear that you were off to boot camp. Not a phone call—nothing! I had to hear from Mycroft Holmes that you had gone! He'd mentioned that Sherlock was all bent up about it, but he didn't really elaborate. I'm certain he'll get over it as soon as you two start exchanging cute letters._

_Anyway, if this is what you want for you future, then I am behind your decision completely. I hope you make all sorts of friends and excel in training. _

_All my love, _

_Mum._

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mum.<em>

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I really am. I guess that I had assumed that I already did. It was sort of an on-the-fly decision. _

_I've made one friend here—he's not really a friend so much as he is a bunk mate—we sit and talk about training. He's sort of a goofball. His name is Milo Wallace. _

_I wouldn't say that I'm having fun, exactly. Training is difficult and the food is gross, but I'm learning what I need to do to survive. I hope you'll forgive me for frightening you so much. Send Harry my love._

_Love, _

_John._

* * *

><p><em>Dear John.<em>

_I'm sorry to hear that the food is terrible. I'm glad that you're making friends._

_Honey, Mycroft has come over at least twice this week to talk about Sherlock. I don't think he has anyone else to speak to about him. He hasn't left his bed for weeks. He's been incredibly depressed. Mycroft seems to think that you broke up with Sherlock over the telephone the day before you left for training. I refuse to believe it because that's not how you would break up with someone. I know you. You wouldn't call someone—especially if that someone was Sherlock. To be honest, I thought that you would never break up with Sherlock. If there's something going on between you two, I'm sure you can tell me. You can fix this, John. What you had was wonderful. _

_Harry's doing fine, she's gotten herself into a chef school. She misses you. _

_Love,_

_Mum._

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mum.<em>

_I'm glad to hear that Harry's gotten into school. I was sort of wondering if she'd ever make it out of the house. She's bright enough, she just needs to apply herself. _

_Everything is the same here, the same people, the same walls, the same everything. It's frustrating and comforting at the same time. Turns out Milo's father was in the army too, just like Dad. _

_I've got to go, I started writing this too late. I love you and Harry._

_John_

* * *

><p><em>John Hamish Watson. <em>

_You mail Sherlock Holmes right this very instant. He's been deteriorating at a faster rate than we could've imagined. He finally got out of bed four months ago and we thought that he'd be getting better. He was on cases again, solving them madly. He absolutely threw himself into his work, or so Mycroft claims. Then he disappeared. He left the house one day and disappeared for three days. Mycroft found him passed out in an alleyway in the East End._

_He's not right, John, and he needs you. I'm certain that he's trying to talk himself into not needing you and drugs are his only escape. It's the only way he's himself again, and he shouldn't have that. If you don't want to be with Sherlock, that's your choice. I won't pretend to understand, but I do understand that (for some reason) it is what you have decided. But do __**not **__let Sherlock hang out to dry. This boy didn't even know he had a heart until you snuck in and stole it from him. Send him a letter. One letter. Be kind, John. _

_In that year and a half that he's spent living under our roof, I have come to regard Sherlock as a part of you, and therefor, my son. I can't stand to see him in this state and I will do as much as I can to make him safe. I will not send you another letter until Mycroft has confirmed that Sherlock has received a letter from you._

_Love always,_

_Mum_

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mum.<em>

_I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. I don't want to talk about Sherlock. I never meant Sherlock to be so hurt by it. No one was left unharmed in this split, but it was necessary. I love you, mum. I really, truly do. It hurts me to think that just because I won't write Sherlock you'd stop sending letters._

_In regards to writing Sherlock: I can't. _

_Graduation is in three months. I'd appreciate it if you didn't come. _

_Love Always,_

_John._

* * *

><p><em>Dear John.<em>

_Now, come on honey. Don't be angry with me, I'm just worried for Sherlock's sake. I'll stop talking about him. In fact that will be the last time I write his name. Please let me come to your graduation. I do want to see you all done up in mess dress, graduating from recruit to soldier. I'm sorry, Johnny, please let me come._

_Harry's got a dog now. We've named him Gladstone. He's bullpup. We sent a photo with this letter. _

_Love,_

_Mum_

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mum.<em>

_As soon as I leave you get a dog? That figures. I've always wanted a pitbull. Gladstone's an odd name, but it's fitting. _

_And I'm not mad at you, mum, I'm not. But I would just really appreciate it if you didn't come. Doctors are in high demand for abroad missions, so I'll probably be assigned right away. I don't want to get sentimental just before I'm shipped somewhere around the world, alright? I love you and Harry very much, but I don't think that I can handle seeing you. I send you and Harry all my love. And Gladstone too._

_Love,_

_John._

* * *

><p><strong>I felt kind of bad for Mrs Watson, you know... she was really out of the loop. Yeah. <strong>

**John trying to play it safe while skirting around this issue of Sherlock. Also, if you can't tell, it sort of takes place over a decent amount of time- about eight months since he was recruited. **

**Tell me what you think please**


	26. Chapter 26

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, stumbling into the living room where Mycroft was spread out. He brought a few of the case files that he'd been working on and laid them in front of Mycroft, on top of the work that Mycroft was doing. "Mycroft—look." He said.

Nearly a year had passed since Sherlock had tried cocaine, and it could show on his face. His eyes were sunken in his head, dark circles surrounded the pinks of his eyes. His cheekbones were so prominent now that it seemed like they would at any moment slice through his pasty, yellowish skin and reveal themselves. His mouth was always constantly talking, and so the lips that had once been delicately pink were now chapped and white. Mycroft could barely stand to look at him.

"Sherlock, you know our deal." Mycroft said. "If you want to talk to me, you need to eat something."

"I'll eat something later, You've got to see—"

"Sherlock." Mycroft glared at him. Sherlock huffed in frustration and stormed into the kitchen and picked up a roll. He bit into it angrily and returned to the living room.

"Happy?" He said through a mouth filled with bread.

"No." Mycroft replied. "But it'll do. Have some cheese after you're finished."

"Alright, whatever—" Sherlock said, pointing to his case files. "Look at this, Mycroft. Not only were these crimes all difficult to figure out and expertly executed, they all have a certain feel about them. It's like one artist who wants you to think that he is many, but you can distinguish his brush strokes if you look close enough. These are all tied together in some way. I was at first unsure of how."

"Sherlock—"

"No, Mycroft." Sherlock said quickly. "I've found out. I don't know how I missed it, I have no clue how I missed it—see if you can catch it, brother." He placed down four cases in front of Mycroft, a post it note pressed to the outside of the manilla envelope. "Susan McMillan was stabbed with a dagger. The killer took her shoe and hid it in the next victim's house—Robert Stanton. Stanton was killed in the sewers with a kitchen knife. A different company made these knives—a company called Sorner Appliances. It was there I caught him after he stole Stanton's sheets and put them in the next victim's house—Sandra Sladen." Sherlock pressed.

"Yes, I know the details of the case."

"Don't you see? Can't you hear?"

"Sherlock, I stock my mind with the workings of other governments, not some back-alley murderer."

"But don't you see?" Sherlock said angrily. "This isn't some back alley murderer! It's an organized crime villain who is trying to send a message!"

"And the message is…?

" Sherlock sighed pointedly and rolled his eyes. "S! That case, the first case where I started to become suspicious of the connection—It's S. 'Susan', 'stabbed', 'Stanton', 'Sewer', 'Sorner', 'sheets', and as if he was starting to get mad at how slow I'd become, he made the pattern more obvious with Sandra Slaton."

"And?"

"Mycroft how can you be so infuriating." Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Each of these cases are connected by a letter. Each one it becomes more difficult to distinguish the letter." He laid them out again. "Chronologically, they don't make the slightest bit of sense. S, N, G, T, I… So I'm almost finished decoding the rest of them. He's sending a message, I can feel it."

"He? Who he?"

"The man! The orchestrator, the perpetrator, the villain!" Sherlock said quickly, his words spilling out frantically. "He who knows of me and is playing with me!"

"You're paranoid, Sherlock."

"Why aren't you listening to me?" He shouted. "There are clear signs, it's obvious that he's trying to reach me!"

"It may be obvious to someone who has been high off cocaine all day, but it sound to me the ramblings of a drunk man desperate for an interesting life!" Mycroft bit. Sherlock stepped back. It was the first time in a very long while that Mycroft had really said something so harsh.

"I—"

"Should the police ever find out about your habit, they will call all of your cases into question."

"But… the facts—"

"Would have to be reviewed by someone else. Sherlock, you need to take care of yourself. You're falling apart at the seams and it's disgusting to look at." Mycroft said. Sherlock licked his teeth and regained his composure. There was a tense moment where Sherlock and Mycroft stared each other down. Sherlock was the first to break the tense silence.

"This is because I'm not eating, isn't it?"

"NO YOU IDIOT!" Mycroft bellowed, standing up so fast his heavy chair clattered to the ground. "I'm talking about how three months ago you were passed out in an alleyway with a syringe in your pocket! I'm talking about how you will only get out of bed once you've had your hit like you're some child asking for his hot milk! I'm talking about you, Sherlock, and how this is going to get out of hand very quickly. And I don't know how I'll be able to pick up your pieces."

There was a ringing silence for a few moments before Sherlock looked down at his files. He shuffled them up and dropped them off in his room. He returned to the kitchen picked the phone off the hook and ordered Chinese for delivery. Once he was finished, he gathered fresh clothes from his room and disappeared to the bathroom to shower. Mycroft's eyebrows had knitted. He finally turned around picked up his chair, sitting in it. He waited for Sherlock to emerge. When he did, his hair was no longer greasy, his skin was still pasty but less grimy. His teeth were brushed, his fingernails cleaned. Save for his thin frame and pointed face, Sherlock's demeanor was incredibly collected.

"I can do this, Mycroft, I can." Sherlock said, seriously.

"You're sober."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Sherlock smirked a little bit. Mycroft saw it just then. A manic, frightening glint flashed in Sherlock's eyes. That was where he would see it. Sherlock was very far gone mentally, the cocaine gripping him tighter and tighter until one day he would break—but for now, he would eat. He would put bandages on his cut hands and he would continue working on the case files, and he would look completely respectable while doing so.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah. I think Sherlock would be really good at hiding being high because he's a marvelous actor, but I think he didn't want to hide it around Mycroft because he thought that Mycroft didn't mind as much as he did. <strong>

**But Mycroft does mind, obviously. **


	27. Chapter 27

John re-read some of the letters from his mother. Milo had talked his ear off about his older brother and his parents. John had mostly smiled and asked a few questions where necessary. It wasn't that he didn't care about Milo, it was just that he didn't care about Milo's family.

Everyone was talking excitedly about seeing their families, and John had almost regretted telling his mother that she couldn't come see him. It was much too late now, even if she caught a plane.

So John tried to pull his mother's voice from the letters that she had written him and nestle himself around that. Unfortunately, this fantastic image of Sherlock kept getting in the way. Sherlock, half-awake curling in John's bed as John got ready for the school day. Sherlock bathed in moonlight, his eyes hard and serious as he brushed John's cheek. Sherlock sitting on the couch. Sherlock making a deduction. Sherlock kissing him on the forehead. Sherlock irritating him by calling him an idiot. Memory after memory of Sherlock flooded his mind, the emotions muffled, but still stinging. Sherlock was scratching at the stiff wall that the Army had taken a year to build up. And John couldn't have that.

"Hey, Watson." Milo said, leaning against their bedpost. John folded the letter quickly and stowed it back in his bag. "Are you excited for deployment?"

"Well I'm not really a doctor yet, Milo." John replied.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "But you're a soldier."

John closed his eyes and sighed, nodding. He stood up.

"You never said about your family." Milo asked as they walked to the break room. "I don't know anything about you, mate."

"I've got a mother and an older sister, Harry. My dad is in the Army too, but he's gotten a divorce from my mom so I don't know much about him."

"Oh." Milo nodded. "Are they coming?"

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"I asked them not to." John said, looking over at Milo. "I'm going to be deployed somewhere and I didn't want to get sentimental. I just..." He shrugged. "I'll see them when my tour is over."

"That could be in ten years." Milo said, frowning. John shrugged.

"So be it." He was certain that the moment he saw his mother's concerned eyes, he would break down. He would lose his breath and his eyes would well up and he'd spill everything to his mother and sister. He'd tell them about how he didn't want to be here—how he wanted to be home with his mother and Sherlock and how Moriarty was threatening him. But he also knew that the minute he did that, Sherlock would die. And his mother would have to go home eventually. And eventually, Moriarty would come to kill her too. He couldn't put them in danger by being selfish.

Milo eyed him strangely. John sighed.

"There's a lot of the story you're missing, Milo." John said seriously. "Please don't look at me like that. My reasons are just."

"If you think so."

"I do." John said irritably.

* * *

><p>Graduation went by quickly. John was reminded painfully of the last graduation that he attended. Sherlock didn't want to go. His mother had caught them kissing. His graduation gift. He wondered if Sherlock still had the dagger or if he threw it away along with the rest of his memories of John.<p>

John was congratulated by Milo's parents—a tall, weedy woman who had the innocence that Milo reflected, and a robust father with a salt and pepper goatee. Milo's brother who was studying to be a physicist looked largely like Milo, only with a weaker jaw and thick glasses. They were talking to each other happily. John nodded respectfully and smiled as much as he cold manage. John's mind was really further through the day, when he would be called to be deployed. He would finish his medical studies abroad and be a part of the action as well. He had already completed two years of med school, so he only needed two more until he could actually have a patient. He was excited about it. He held onto that little flicker of happiness for as long as he could.

The ceremonies ended, Milo's parents and brother went home, and Milo moped on the top bunk. How Milo was able to still have his emotions and be a high-functioning soldier was beyond John. If he had let a single one of his emotions through, John would break down. Like a hole in a dam, he saw it. Milo was doing exactly what John would've done. Only John wouldn't be able to get out of bed.

"Attention!" The Captain's voice boomed throughout the sleeping quarters. Everyone scrambled from their beds and stood at attention in the spaces between the bunks. He walked slowly to the middle of the room, his hands behind his back. "Deployment Orders are to be distributed to Soldiers with surnames that begin with the letter T through the letter Z. All else, as you were."

Half of the room continued standing straight backed, preceding Captain Dowinger to his office. They were all ordered into the room across from it where chairs had been set up. They relaxed once in this room, an excited buzz rippling through the boys. John just found a seat and closed his eyes. Boys left and returned, their eyes exited, anxious, disappointed. He finally opened his eyes when he heard,

"Wallace, Milo Andrew." Milo grinned brilliantly, patted John on the knee once and stood. Once standing, all traces of laugher gone from his face. He left the room. John clenched his fists. Wherever Milo was sent, John wanted to be sent there also. He didn't tell Milo just how much he meant to John, because John was emotionless by choice. But Milo was the only one who stuck with him even though John treated him like an object. John was never rude, of course. He just never cared. Milo returned, his face pale and his eyes staring. His lips were trembling as he looked straight ahead. John touched his shoulder and tried to give him a look asking if he was alright. He had never seen Milo look that way.

"Watson, John Hamish." The man called. John immediately stood and walked out of the room. He knocked twice on the door and heard the firm, "Come in," From the other side.

John walked in, closed the door behind him and saluted. The Captain sighed.

"At ease, soldier. Have a seat." John relaxed as much as he could, but found that he sat just as stiffly as he stood. "I remember you on your first day here. You and your music box." John's jaw clenched. "You were such a scared kid, back then."

"Yes I was, sir."

"And you're not now?"

"Well I'm not a kid anymore, sir, and I do believe I'm not as scared as I was when I first arrived."

"Why not?"

"I've come to accept danger as an everyday part of my life. To flinch away from it shows weakness and I will be attacked if I show any sign of that."

"Emotions aren't weakness, John, they're human." The Captain said. John didn't know how to respond to this so he didn't. The Captain sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry about this, John. I really am. You've performed admirably in all of your exams; you've exceeded expectations and forced the students around you to excel. You are a brilliant soldier and an excellent medical student and it pains me to get rid of you just now. But I have here where you will go."

John's jaw clenched as he prepared to hear his sentencing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat on the floor of his room, the clean-shaven act had disappeared for the first time in weeks. He had kept it up just as Mycroft had requested for three months. Mycroft walked in to the sight of a half-naked Sherlock hunched over case files, his dagger and syringe lying adjacent. His eyes were closed.<p>

"I… I have some news." Mycroft stated.

"It's about John, isn't it?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Yes."

"I already know it." Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together as though praying. "Where he's being deployed."

"How could you already know?" Mycroft frowned. "It was literally just sent to me."

"I told you that he was trying to send me a message." Sherlock whispered. "The four cases that you brought home the other day were all linked by the same factor that the other ones were. The letters were three different As and an F." Sherlock rolled his head. "I told you, Mycroft. I _told you._" He stood up, revealing to Mycroft the manila envelopes on the ground marked with a letter. In an arch around where Sherlock had been sitting, it was clearly spelt in thick black sharpie on those post-it notes.

Afghanistan.

* * *

><p><strong>I mean, we knew but John and Sherlock didn't. Moriarty playing with Sherlock like that- it's not nice is it. Nope. No... not at all. But then again, this <em>is <em>Moriarty we're talking about. And for those of you who want Sherlock and John to come back to each other (which is everyone) it's going to get a lot worse before it can get any better. Sorry...**

**Anyway. **

**Review please~**


	28. Chapter 28

When John was seven, his family lived with his mother's brother. He had two kids who absolutely hated John, they would pick on him because he was littler and didn't technically have a home. It was only for a few months, but his cousins were absolute tyrants. They would lock John in the bathroom, closets, bedrooms for _hours. _He was never claustrophobic so this didn't really bother him, and he would just retreat into his head and wait for an adult to find him.

One time in particular stuck out to John. His cousins had a sandbox that was unused and littered with cat poop. It had a dome lid that was supposed to keep cats out. His cousins had pushed him into the sandbox and sealed John in. He was cramped inside there, screaming for help. He didn't want to be crushed to death—he was screaming for help but Harry was out with a friend and his mother was gone. He was trapped in that sandbox for an hour, but it felt like half the day. John had spent five minutes banging on the inside of the dome, but it clipped shut from the outside. He laid on his back in the gritty sand, the cat poop thankfully old and hard as opposed to fresh. He cried for another fifteen minutes and for the remaining 40 minutes, retreated further into his mind than he had ever gone before. Even after his mother found him, while she was screaming and cussing at his cousins, he was completely devoid of his emotions. He was still in his mind; a happy place in which he created adventures and got himself lost.

John recalled this as the plane landed in what had to be the world's biggest sandbox. He shivered a little bit as he caught a glimpse of the ground. He gave a side glance to Milo who was clenching his jaw. Milo caught his eyes and a flash of panic riddled them before he calmed himself. All of the soldiers exited the plane in an orderly manner. They were assigned their places. Milo looked like he could cry with relief when he was paired up with John again. John didn't want to admit just how happy he was when he heard that as well. They were dismissed and followed their respective platoon leaders.

John was given a schedule and told when to show up to certain classes. Milo didn't have to train anymore, he had become a soldier and that was all he wanted. Typically, to become an army doctor, one had to finish two years in training, but John had excelled so rapidly that they had just accepted his one year at medical school as one year in training and sent him off. So John only had two more years of school before he could officially have a patient.

He was in an army base in Afghanistan. He was in Afghanistan and he was studying to become an Army Doctor. John chuckled when he realized that this was exactly what Sherlock had imagined he would be. Then almost immediately, he would feel terrible. When he had break time, just as he did when he was in training, he would sit with his case open, pull out a pair of socks that contained a tiny silver box. He would debate on opening it to hear its music, but he never did. Milo would walk in and he would stow it away quickly. This is how it went. This is how it always would go. This is how John expected it to end. It's almost how it did.

* * *

><p><strong>A very, very long period of time passes after this. Alright? Okay. Short chapter, but sort of necessary. I almost piggy backed this onto the previous chapter, but I just liked how the last chapter ended. So here's a tiny little chapter and I'm going to wait a couple of days before I post the next chapter. Cool. <strong>

**Tell me what you think!**


	29. Chapter 29

_~*~Three years later~*~_

Sherlock at 22 had become nothing short of obsessed with finding the character that had informed him where John would be deployed. Sherlock had shown up at crime scenes, convincing a wary classmate to let him in on the interesting ones. After helping solve several seriously complex cases, the DI had allowed Sherlock to accompany them to certain cases. Eventually he would send Lestrade to fetch Sherlock to help them.

During one case that had seriously stunk of this man, Sherlock had forced a sniveling criminal during the last gasps of air to reveal the name. Moriarty, he had screamed. Moriarty... Sherlock had felt out of his depth. An alarming sense of calm washed over him in those moments that the man bled out on the floor, but it was suddenly replaced with a burning desire to hunt down Moriarty and stop him.

He breathed Moriarty, he slept Moriarty. Moriarty filled up his time and his brain, reaching into the deepest folds. Moriarty enraged him, but there was also an admitted intrigue. He was a man with incredible intelligence. Paralleled only by Sherlock himself. He was able to orchestrate clever heists and tricks, and he had evaded the police for years. Moriarty had the liberty to work outside the law, he was able to create intricate patterns of crime, all whenever he wanted.

Once or twice when he was at the depths of his cocaine high, Sherlock had thought about what would've happened if he had joined Moriarty. Almost immediately, he laughed at this thought bitterly. He would never throw his ranks in with someone who would threaten John's life like that. Never.

Mycroft couldn't bear to see Sherlock like this. He would spend longer hours at work and come home to see Sherlock poring over cases. Sherlock was trying to dress respectably as he had promised Mycroft he would three years ago, but time and obsession had warped Sherlock. It was more pathetic seeing how much Sherlock couldn't even do that. Sherlock had to set an alarm to remind himself to eat, and when he did so it would be anything he could get his hands on. Sometimes it wouldn't stay down and Mycroft would hear his brother retching in the bathroom.

He would mutter Moriarty's name hatefully and randomly, causing Mycroft to close his eyes in exasperation. Sherlock was terrible. Sherlock was absolutely terrible and Mycroft kept himself in denial about it for as long as he could. His brother was fantastic, amazing—surely he could think his way out of his four-year addiction. The answer was becoming more and more clear as time went on. And that answer was 'No. No he can't, Mycroft. Help him.'

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat at the dining room table, his hands folded on the shining wooden top. Sherlock came home from a case.<p>

"Lestrade is going to be promoted soon, I can tell." Sherlock said happily. "This means I'll be able to go on-scene for some of the more difficult cases. If only you'd let me take a little before I went there, all I could think about is how well I would see the crime scene if I had the drug." Sherlock threw off his coat and retreated to his room. It took him less than a minute to start screaming at the top of his lungs. Mycroft heard crashing and banging of furniture before Sherlock threw his door open madly, teeth bared, looking at Mycroft.

"What have you done with it?" He bellowed. "Where is it?"

"I've taken it."

"Where?" He demanded. "Mycroft, you had no right—that was my property—"

"You can't see yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft shook his head. "You need help."

"I don't need help, I need cocaine." Sherlock demanded. "It's the only thing that makes sense! I _need_ it to defeat him!"

"This Moriarty character?"

"Bloody fuck—_YES_!" He snarled. "Who have I been talking about endlessly for the past three years?"

"If he's as brilliant as he says he is, he'll know about your addiction. He'll use it against you."

"He can't do that because I'm not addicted." Sherlock bit. "It merely enhances my senses."

"Sherlock—"

"Just give me the fucking drugs." He spat.

"I've destroyed them." Mycroft responded calmly. "I've mixed them all with cement and buried them under the ground with a steel beam. Nearest construction site." Sherlock was shaking with rage. He screamed and swung to hit Mycroft, but Mycroft ducked it and caught him in a chokehold.

"Get off of me!" He screamed. Mycroft released him. Sherlock angrily threw his coat back on and ran out of the flat. Anderson. He needed to get to Anderson.

* * *

><p>Sherlock turned the handle to Anderson's house and found that it was open. That should've been the first indicator. "Anderson!" He shouted into the flat. "Anderson, where are you! I need more! My fucking brother is being—"<p>

"He never did like your little habit, did he?" A soft voice replied from the living room. Sherlock stopped cold. He backed up and stared at the man standing in the center of the room. His hands were in his pockets and he was very relaxed. "Hi I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped towards Moriarty.

"And then this can only be Sherlock Holmes!" He said as a sort of introduction. "I used to describe you as 'The Great' Sherlock Holmes but…" He shrugged. "You sort of lost that title."

"Will I gain it back when I've defeated you?"

"Certainly." Moriarty shrugged. "The problem is that you'll have to defeat me. And that's not very likely is it?"

Sherlock swallowed. "What are you doing to John?" He said firmly.

Moriarty laughed loudly. "I keep forgetting!" He wiped his face and grinned. "You see, my problem is that I still see you as I did when I was fourteen and you were twelve. You were trying to investigate the murder of a man who had seemingly drowned with his own vomit because he was drunk. Well, that was me, Sherlock, that was my debut. You were the only one who tried to get the police interested and I couldn't have that. I've kept an eye on you ever since." He smiled maniacally. "You didn't have one weakness back then. Not one. And now you've got two. A doctor and his medicine." He snickered. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes."

"What are you doing to John!" He demanded.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Come _on _Sherlock. Isn't it obvious? The only person in the world that you care about, he's gone and left you? I'm going to threaten to kill him so you can never make amends, of course! And it's so easy too, him being out there in the middle of the heat and the sand. Completely unaware that there is another thing threatening his life. He's a great medical man. He's excelled away from you when he was just overshadowed by you here. I think he finds it… freeing." It was like he was pressing salt into a wound that was already smarting.

"Stop." Sherlock whispered.

"Though I thought this whole 'cocaine' thing would shoot itself over. Kind of expected you to get over it by now. Disappointed. I do sort of need you out of the way for a little while. You're getting too deep." Moriarty said unkindly. He pulled out a syringe from his pocket—it was already filled with a clear liquid. He held it in his open palm.

"Come, boy!" He called, and Sherlock obeyed. The craving for it pulled him, it called to him. He could tell by a glance that it was cocaine in the needle and not some sort of poison. He grabbed the needle hungrily and sat on the floor at Moriarty's feet as he searched for a vein to inject himself. Once he did he sighed, a calm feeling washing over him. Moriarty pulled out a mobile and started dialing a number.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Me? Oh I'm dialing for an ambulance." He said. Sherlock's mind started spinning with the drug. Everything was super-intense, brighter and harsher than he had ever experienced before. "It seems that you've overdosed." He said in a sing-song voice. Sherlock's face was wracked with panic as he fell over on the floor, shaking and clutching on the cuffs of Moriarty's pants. Moriarty bent over to Sherlock and murmured gently.

"I just need you away for a bit. To keep you from prying. If I find out that you had a hand in anything, I'll kill the Doctor." Jim stroked Sherlock's face with one finger. "It's nothing personal, my dear. But when you return, bring your best game." He stood and was gone. Sherlock passed out cold on the floor of the living room, Moriarty's final threat ringing throughout his head.

* * *

><p><strong> I had a tough time imagining Sherlock cussing, but I tried to put myself in the place of him... <strong>

**so yeah I'm terrible with showing how long it's been but it's been three years, nothing has changed. Sherlock thinks that he's getting closer and closer but in reality he's just sort of circling Moriarty. But Moriarty finds it to be annoying, and he needs Sherlock out of the way for a little bit. Overdosing. **

**oh man I love writing Moriarty though, he's so much fun.**

**review please!**


	30. Chapter 30

_Dear John._

_I know you asked me not to send you anything more about Sherlock, and I've respected your wishes as such. But I feel that I owe Sherlock and that tiny part of you that used to love him just this piece of information. _

_Sherlock overdosed on cocaine two days ago. An ambulance arrived just as he passed out, but there was no one in the flat to have called for it. He died in the ambulance twice, but thankfully had a pulse when he was admitted. The doctors here stabilized him, but he fell into a coma for a few days. He woke up just today. Mycroft informed me, frightened and anxious, and asked me to stay with him while he waited for Sherlock to wake. You know that I work at that hospital, so it was really no problem._

_We were all frightened that he would die for those three days. He woke up and we were all thrilled, but it was when he started mumbling painfully that our hearts all broke. He was moaning 'John'. He was calling for you, John, you. He was crying gently as he was mumbling for you. It breaks my heart to see how much, even after all these years, he still loves you. Mycroft was thinking that he would wake up and shout about this character that he's invented that is a master criminal that's been plotting against him. Moriarty, he calls this villain. It worries me that he's making up characters._

_He's fine, now. Mycroft has sent him to a rehabilitation center in America, and I'm glad for it. To be honest, I don't know if rehab is going to work for him. He's got too much of a complex to keep sober. I'm not going to ask you to send him a letter. I know that you won't. I'm just asking that you keep him in your heart, at least just a little bit._

_Love, _

_Mum._

John was shaking while reading this letter. He couldn't breathe, the nausea tightened this throat. Sherlock… the bloody idiot almost died without John being able to tell him one last time that he loved him. Moriarty. Even in the grips of this terrible addiction, Sherlock was still searching. He was still getting to the center of things, even if he wasn't doing it for John.

John had long accepted the notion that Sherlock hated him. It had been long enough, Sherlock would've certainly gotten over John. Perhaps he just liked the cocaine now, even if he started because of John. As for the moaning, John believed that somewhere he was blaming John. He was blaming John for his troubles, for his addiction. His mother was always a bit of a romantic and could only believe his own interpretation.

In three years, John had gotten used to hiding his emotions. He'd finished his studies and was able to have his own patients, though not many came through there. He went out into the surrounding villages sometimes to teach the doctors there how to treat their wounded. John had seen far too many starving children. He was used to the numb he had felt all these years, but it still wasn't easy. He would think of Sherlock when he was alone and the world was quiet, but that wasn't often. It was times like now when he was holding his mother's letter seeing Sherlock's action written out that made John remember that Sherlock had actually existed. Sometimes John was convinced that Sherlock had been an imaginary character.

"Hey!" Milo said, walking in the room excitedly. He caught a glimpse of John and calmed. "Woah… man, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." John responded, thankful to hear his voice as monotonous as it always was. Milo glared at him.

"No you're not. Quit saying that you are because I know you're not."

"I swear, it's—it's my mum, you know—"

"No, I don't know." Milo said. "I've known you for four years and I still haven't got the slightest clue about you, John. You keep everything to yourself."

"I know." John muttered. "It's because I have to."

"No you don't." Milo said. He hesitated for a while before asking, "Who's Sherlock?" John looked up sharply, his eyes wide and his mouth open slightly. He hadn't heard Sherlock's name aloud for a very, _very _long time.

"How-"

"It's been five years, I know how to glance." Milo said hotly.

"I… He's…"

"Also, that one time you said I could borrow a pair of your socks, I found a music box with his name and yours engraved on it. So don't you tell me that he's just a friend." John's face bent into anger. Too many people were seeing this box. It was his, it was his private piece of Sherlock.

"Did you open it?" John growled.

"Yes I did." Milo said evenly.

John took a slow breath in, his eyes closed. "That's fine." He replied. "I don't care."

"Look, John… I don't care if you're gay." He said pointedly. He looked down before murmuring, "Did he die?"

"No." John said softly. "I left him." Milo blinked, shocked.

"But… that music box… you're keeping it. And all these letters that you get upset over—"

"Drop it, alright?" John said delicately. Milo hesitated. He had never heard John so broken.

"John… you're breaking." Milo said. John looked Milo in the eye. He was so sincere in his concern for John's wellbeing that John bit his bottom lip to keep his tears from spilling over. It was just Milo. It was only Milo.

"Sherlock Holmes…" John felt Sherlock's familiar name dancing on his tongue. "Is possibly the most brilliant man in all of Britain." John started to smile a tiny bit. "He's cold and blunt and not even slightly romantic, but we loved each other. I still love him."

"What were you two like?" Milo leaned forward, drinking in everything about John. "Together, I mean?"

"Together… we…" John shrugged. "We were whole." He looked up into Milo's eyes. "It is the most complete I have ever felt in my entire life, being with Sherlock. I feel like I have a purpose—I feel like I have a meaning. It's dumb and it's cheesy and it's sappy… but I love him with such conviction that it's frightening."

"Then why did you leave him?" Milo asked. John faced away from Milo.

"I just… I had to." John muttered. "I can't explain it to you, Milo. I can't. I just had to leave him. I had to join the army."

"But you miss him."

"I know!" John bit. "I know. I know I do, I feel it every day. Which is saying something because it's been five years since I last saw him. He probably hates me now." John chuckled sadly.

"I just don't understand why you would split from him if you genuinely truly love him."

"You're not meant to understand, Milo." John shook his head. "I trust that you can keep this to yourself, right? I don't need the others laughing at me or feeling uncomfortable around me."

"I won't tell anyone." Milo said. "I swear."

"Alright. Now get back to whatever you were supposed to be doing, soldier."

"Certainly, doctor."

* * *

><p><strong>Milo really is a nice guy and I just wanted to really show that in this tiny chapter. <strong>

**And Poor John thinking that Sherlock doesn't love him... aw**

**please please please review I really realy really like it when people review please**


	31. Chapter 31

It was too beautiful here. The sky was too blue and the grass was too green. Sherlock looked at the tall estate that stretched out wide. It was obviously modern, but tried to have the flair of a classic manor. He could see a basketball court next to the tennis courts. He clicked his teeth. This looked more appropriate for a vacation destination for the rich rather than a dumping ground for the degenerate. Mycroft stood next to him as Sherlock handed over his bag and was patted down at the entrance. When he was declared clean and after they had rifled through his things thoroughly—stopping only once to x-ray a tiny music box—they entered the rehabilitation center.

An overly-chipper woman wearing light blue clothing approached Sherlock, as Mycroft sent him one last intense look before turning away.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes!" She said happily. Sherlock wanted to gag at her tone. "I'm Danica Singleton, but you can just call me Dani." She said cheerfully. Sherlock gave her a once over before muttering,

"Cheating on boyfriend with another woman."

Dani gave a slight start before catching glance of a person behind Sherlock. She smiled, her enthusiasm forced.

"And here comes your room mate!" She said. "Say hello, Irene."

"Hello." Irene said, eyeing Sherlock thoughtfully. "It's always nice to have fresh meat, wouldn't you agree, Dani?" Dani flushed but Irene continued. "Irene Adler. I guess we'll be rooming together."

"But you're a female. Isn't that against most codes?"

"I'm a lesbian. We're roomed by our sexuality. That's an important thing here. No one is allowed to have sex or anything." Irene said. Sherlock shrugged. It wasn't a rule that he was going to break.

Dani gave him the full tour, showing him the cafeteria, the tennis courts, basketball courts, swimming pool—the gym and the therapy room. She took them into the separate wings and explained how each wing was separated by people who could relate to one another—basically the cokeheads and the sex addicts shared a wing. The Meth and Heroin users shared a wing and the Alcoholics had an entire wing to themselves—there were just so many of them. The miscellaneous usually ended up with the cocaine users and the sex addicts because there weren't that many sex addicts admitted for rehabilitation. She showed him how each wing had its own main lounge where everyone would participate in group therapy or just hang around and play foosball. Irene snorted at a couple of her explanations.

Dani finally lead them to their room, a simple room with light blue and light teal walls, two beds on either side of the room, and two desks. Two drawers and two lamps. The bed to the right was neatly made and not slept on, the bed to the left was slept in, but still made up enough. It could be a hotel room if it didn't have the charming addition of bars on the single window.

"Lovely." Sherlock said his first word throughout the entire tour. It was positively dripping with sarcasm.

"I do hope you'll enjoy your stay here, Sherlock!" Dani said cheerfully. Sherlock spun around.

"Is that a sick joke?" He said. "What kind of person says 'I hope you enjoy your stay here'? I'm going to have to live, for 12 months, without the one substance that has buoyed me for years and you're hoping that I 'enjoy my stay'?" Sherlock snorted in disgust. "Have you ever met one person who enjoyed going through withdrawal? Or are you so wrapped up in being so sickeningly adorable and so bloody 'Mother Teresa' that you can't see that real _people_ come through those doors and not another problem that you've got to fix? You repulse me with your elitism and I never want to see your face again."

Irene was grinning brilliantly and Dani's face was contorted into a mix of sadness and anger. She didn't say anything more and walked away from Sherlock.

"That was brilliant." Irene said. "We all think that, but we've never said it in such a… fancy way. Though the accent and the growling voice might help."

Sherlock sighed and pushed his case to the floor, lying on his bed. Prison would've been easier than this.

"So… cocaine?" Irene said, sitting on her bed. "And let me guess… gay."

"Yes and no." Sherlock pressed a pillow to his face and moderately wondered if he could suffocate himself with it, at least until he passed out.

"Not gay? But they paired you up with a female."

"I'm asexual." Sherlock tucked the pillow under his head and felt a conversation approaching.

Irene cackled. "Are you kidding? A 20 year old virgin in the ward? I don't believe you."

"I'm 22 and I'm not a virgin." Sherlock said, simply. "I just don't find anyone sexually attractive."

"Well there was at least _one _person that you found attractive." Sherlock turned away from Irene. "Did she dominate you, or did you take her?"

"Him." Sherlock corrected. Irene's eyebrows raised.

"Ohh… so you _are _gay…"

"No." Sherlock said. "Asexual."

"Well, Mister Asexual, you have broken the one rule of asexuality… you had sex." Irene mocked in a sing-song voice. Sherlock's fingers gripped his pillow angrily. "We're going to have to kick you out of the club. You fucked someone. Did he top? Did _you _top? Did he ride you like a pony or was it sweet and gentle, like caressing a baby? How was he, though? Pretty good considering you gave your _all_ to him—"

"JESUS BLOODY CHRIST!" Sherlock bellowed at Irene. "Do I have to tell my entire fucking life story to you? Do you fucking want to look through my luggage? The fact that I gave you any goddamn information is more than I'm willing to divulge and you think because I'm living staying in the same room with you is a decent enough reason for me to tell you _anything_—" Irene backed up as Sherlock started upon his rampage. Sherlock wanted to turn over the table but found that it was bolted to the ground. This made Sherlock angrier than he could imagine. Irene's eyes were wide in shock. "Ask me one more question and I will not hesitate to imagine the most creative of ends for you." The orderlies milled around closer to Sherlock and Irene's room. A lot of the other addicts that had been milling around in the general lounge area were making their way to their room also. Sherlock turned to look at the people and glared at them.

"I like your accent." A woman whose face was almost entirely covered in freckles batted her transparent eyelashes at him.

"Save it, Kitty." Irene said. "Asexual."

"Really?" A man drawled, leaning towards him. "Wow, he seems to have a dominating personality…" He simpered, his brown eyes scanning Sherlock. "_And_ he's a virgin."

"No, not a virgin." Irene supplied. Sherlock snarled at her. "I would've kept it in confidence if you hadn't threatened to kill me." Irene bit. She seemed more confident now that she had witnesses. She turned back to the crowd. "A man." The man who was eyeing him was simply on top of him now. "And by the sounds of it, he was his true love."

Everyone 'oooh'd sarcastically. Sherlock closed his eyes before turning to Irene.

"I could start with the Daddy problems but that would be something laughable seeing as most of the people in this room had issues with their fathers—no I think I'll start more recently." He looked around her. "You've been here for three years, this year being your fourth. You really tried to quit your first year here but you failed, and then grew accustomed to the way that the newcomers looked up to you and revered you—possibly a sexual kink in that somewhere. Eventually, you started to fail on purpose because you liked it here, more likely because you had nowhere else to go. Parents died when you were young, yes? You'd be homeless if you didn't stay." Irene's eyes narrowed, her mouth pressed into a firm line. "The embarrassing part for you is that you still imagine to think yourself above all of the others because of your seniority. But when they leave and recall you to their friends, they will consider you as a sad, pathetic woman who couldn't even get over a _minor at best _sex addiction."

Everyone had fallen silent. He looked into the crowd angrily. He turned around and closed the door behind him, forcing Irene Adler to stay in the main lounge. He dropped to the ground, sitting in front of the door. He stripped his overcoat off and threw his scarf across the room, tangling his fingers in his hair. He let out a moan and slumped weakly to the floor. The door pushed open slightly and Irene stepped through the crack.

"When was your last hit?" Irene asked gently. Sherlock felt too weak to continue to fight.

"Three days ago." He groaned. She helped him up and guided him to his bed. She called for one of the orderlies to bring their nail clippers and she clipped Sherlock's fingernails as his hand lay over the bed. He groaned.

"How did I get here…" He forced his eyes shut and rolled over to his stomach. She took his other hand and clipped his nails on that one too.

"You flew." Irene said, letting his hand drop. He curled up under the thin sheet and clutched his head. The world was spinning, he was going to vomit. He needed it. He needed the drugs, it would all be alright if he just got his needle and let the cocaine in his system.

"Do you need an orderly?" Irene rested a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock shook his head violently. This was going to be a very long journey.

* * *

><p><strong>Irene Adler is originally from New Jersey so I just wanted to incorperate that even though in the show she's not from New Jersey<strong>

**I don't care I'm doing this MY WAY**

**please review oh my goodness you don't understand how happy reviews make me because I'm so insecure about this story**


	32. Chapter 32

The first two weeks had been excruciatingly painful for Sherlock. He had never been in so much agony in his life. When John left, he fell into a stupor, a whole-body numb that his mind had created to protect himself. Now he was raw to everything, his mind betraying him for turning to the drug. He ached for a person to lean on, a familiar face. All he had was Irene Adler and his therapist. He sort of liked his therapist even though he wouldn't admit it to anyone.

The first day that he had met her, she was sitting in the patient couch reading a book. Sherlock could tell from a glance that she wasn't doing this as some sort of scheme. She motioned vaguely to the only other chair in the room, which looked like her chair. He sat in it and looked towards her expectantly. He couldn't figure her out. It was a while before she snapped the book shut and looked up at Sherlock.

"Good story." She smiled wryly and then addressed Sherlock. "Sherlock, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock said deeply.

"Rachel." She said simply. "So. Tell me about yourself." Sherlock laughed through his nose.

"It's not going to happen, I'm not going to open up to you."

She shrugged. "I know."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He shifted awkwardly.

"Problem is… that isn't going to work here." She stood. "This is a rehab. This whole 'closed off' you-won't-understand-my-problems junk isn't going to work around here." She crossed her arms. "Why did you first start using?"

Sherlock stood and glared at her for a moment before sitting in the patient chair. She lowed into the chair that Sherlock had vacated.

"Okay." She shrugged. "We have to talk somehow. Do I have to go through your past? I don't want to have to talk to Mycroft about-"

"Are you threatening me?" Sherlock's voice deepened.

"Do you feel threatened?" She folded her hands.

"Not in the slightest."

"Then you wouldn't mind."

"I didn't say that." Sherlock snapped.

"Well one way or another I'm going to find out the circumstances around your first time and unless you want to tell me the unedited version, I will call up your brother. So it's in your best interest that you tell me soon."

Sherlock bit his lip and started scratching at his hands. He was very thankful that Irene had cut his fingernails a week ago. His hands were cut up from all the scratching he was doing.

"Next week." Sherlock said hoarsely. He lost his anger again, just at the peak point. It seemed no use trying to fight all the time. It just made him depressed. "Let me think about it."

"Mood swings. Going through withdrawal already? How often did you use?"

"I said next week." Sherlock bit angrily.

"Next week you're to tell me the beginning. The beginning is always the hardest." Rachel said, uncrossing her legs and switching their position. "Just tell me how many times a week you would use."

"Started off just once a week." Sherlock admitted. "Then… I don't know… I was blowing through six grams in a week. I would shoot up several times a day." Sherlock scratched at his arm bitterly and wiped his face.

"And you administered it… how?"

Sherlock frowned. "Do you really not know anything at all?"

Rachel shrugged. "We like to hear you tell us. That's why we don't ask for much in the application. Just the addiction and how long you've had it."

He frowned but answered anyway. "I injected it." He twirled his hair in his fingers. "The syringes were a bit tedious and my veins kept collapsing but I guess that's what you have to go through if you have a cocaine addiction."

"So you admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you were addicted." Rachel said.

"I didn't say that, I said habit." Sherlock snapped.

"No you didn't." Rachel grinned. "You said addiction, Sherlock. That's good. At least you're not denying it. I mean, look at where you are."

Sherlock quickly replayed his words back in his head. His lips parted, shaking at the realization that he had said addiction. Panic began to seep into his heart.

"I… I can't…" His eyes were wide as he tried to stave off his panic attack. "I'm going to lose control of my mind, I can't do that." He said quickly. "If I'm not aware of what I'm saying what else could happen? I'm always aware of my words, I'm always in control of them! Why- _why _is this happening?" Sherlock covered his face with his hands. Rachel stood and placed her hands on his shoulders to try and steady him, but Sherlock screamed and fell from the bench.

"Don't touch me!" He shrieked. He curled into a ball on the floor. "I need it." He whispered. "I need him."

* * *

><p><strong>I generally alternate between Sherlock and John but Sherlock is going through something much more pressing... John is basically plowing his way through his life in Afghanistan. <strong>

**I am of the personal opinion that Sherlock has emotions, even if small ones. Taking away his drugs sort of exposes him. Also, Sherlock is always in control of everything always. You saw him in Hounds of the Baskervilles- the moment he starts to doubt his own senses, the moment he loses touch with his mind and his actions is a moment that he panics. **

**Or maybe I'm overthinking it idk**

**Thank you all for reviewing! it really does make me happy oh my gosh I can't explain it**


	33. Chapter 33

"I heard you freaked out at your first therapy session." Irene said several days later as Sherlock lay in his bed. She didn't speak much to Sherlock. It was one of the only things that he really appreciated about her. Because whenever she did speak to him, it was prying and annoying. "Word travels fast around here."

"I bet that bloody pool is laced with piranhas." Sherlock grumbled.

"It's not." Irene said. "We could go swimming later."

"What, and miss my latest episode? No way." Sherlock said sarcastically. "I AM ENJOYING MY STAY HERE!" He bellowed angrily, turning over on his stomach again. Irene lifted his hands and checked his nails. She bandaged up the cuts that he had managed to inflict on himself.

"Don't worry. I don't have a sexual kink with hands or anything."

"You certainly don't." Sherlock mumbled. "You've been free of your addiction for quite some time now."

"Yeah, how did you know that?" She asked. Sherlock turned his sweaty face towards Irene.

"I observed."

"What was there to observe?"

"Just your comfort level around the staff, the obvious relaxed air you feel around other people—so you're obviously not craving their bodies. All of the clothes in your dresser are either old and smell of you or new and smell of here. You don't generally buy clothes while you're here if you're only staying for a year." Sherlock shrugged. "And as for the power thing, you just look like a woman who takes charge. I guessed. Which was stupid. Because I never guess. Ever."

"Well you guessed right, Detective Holmes." Irene said, surprised, wrapping his left hand up tightly. She commanded Sherlock to take off his shirt. Sherlock obeyed. "I do like staying here and feeling like I own the place. I like having other people think that too." She said as she cleaned up Sherlock's cuts on his chest and arms with water and a tissue. "I've never really thought about what they think once they leave." She murmured as she pressed bandages on Sherlock's wounds.

"You're fine, Irene." Sherlock shook his head, his speech slightly slurred from the aching that he felt in his head and his chest. "Get out of hell. The demons will catch you again if you don't." Irene laughed softly.

"They can't catch me if I'm one of them, now can they?" She pressed the last bandage on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock rubbed his face and scratched at the bandages. She swatted his hand away. "Don't you dare."

"Can you please get him for me?" Sherlock said, rolling around to his side, his eyes covered by his hands. "Please, Irene. Get him for me?" "Who? Get who?" Irene frowned. This was one of the first times that Sherlock had opened up, even if he was unaware that he was doing so.

"Him. Get him." Sherlock groaned, rolling over on his stomach again. "I'm so tired. I can't sleep and I'm so _tired._"

"Who do you want me to get? An orderly?"

"No…." Sherlock said. He sighed and pointed to his desk. "First book get… open the first book." He said. Irene stood and retrieved the book. Sherlock sat up slightly, his head spinning, and took the book from Irene. He opened it to reveal the inside carved out. Inside was a small golden box with deep blue crystals around its edges. Irene gasped at its beauty. Sherlock threw the book aside and gingerly unhooked the key from the bottom. He turned the back and set it down on the little table next to him. Irene stared at him watchfully. He opened the box and looked at John's serene smile. The strangely beautiful tune of their love dripped into the room. It snuck into the littlest corners of the drywall, it seeped through the bars of the window. Sherlock lay on his back and let a tear fall from his eye.

"Who is he?" Irene asked softly.

"He's… that's him." Sherlock replied, painfully.

"But Sherlock… who is he?"

* * *

><p>"John Watson." Sherlock stated when he walked into therapy, two weeks later. After spotty sleep, being transferred to isolation twice and missing his last session, Sherlock had smashed through the peak craving. "I started because of John Watson." It had been nearly a month since he arrived and it had been the worst month of his life. The filter that he could usually put up to block the painful emotions that could wear him down was shattered and he was left shaking and crying out in agony. Irene would talk at him after he didn't answer her question of who the box was dedicated to. Obviously it said John Watson on the outside, but she wanted to know more. Sherlock had gathered himself together enough to create just the tiniest bit of discretion. But he hadn't talked about John for years. He hadn't just… talked.<p>

"I'm going to need a few more details than that." Rachel said, putting her sandwich down. "Brother, cousin, best friend—"

"Love." Sherlock said softly. His eyes were clouded. He was able to walk around easily. He was still irritable and depressed at some times, but the moaning and the mindlessness had stopped. Irene had informed him that whenever he was able to fall asleep, the other recovering cocaine addicts had called for as much silence as possible in the lounge to let Sherlock sleep. Sleep was such a rare commodity for them that it was respected. Apparently it was a thing that every wing participated in. It was difficult for the Heroin/ Meth wing, though. Sometimes they just couldn't stop groaning.

"Oh, that explains it." Rachel said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Come here, sit down." She packed the rest of her sandwich away. "I'm glad that you want to talk about this, Sherlock."

"No you're not. You just want to fix me up tie a ribbon on my head and present me to the world as 'clean'. You don't want to know about John."

"Oh, but I do." Rachel said. "You seem to be incredibly closed off. Asexual, with one romantic partner? Who could penetrate your harsh exterior and get to the sweet mushy man on the inside?"

"The problem is that there is no 'sweet mushy man'." Sherlock sniffed. "Not even for him sometimes. It was occasional and it was only ever for him."

"Okay. Tell me about him."

Sherlock pursed his lips before his heart jolted and he started explaining John Watson.

"Imagine a boy rapidly approaching manhood. He has a frock of dirty blonde hair that was usually swept to the right. His skin holds onto a tan so easily, his eyes… a deep blue. He always had his hands in fists, rubbing his thumb over the knuckle. He always unconsciously licked his lips. He took his coffee black. He loved to play with my hair. He loved to listen to me play the violin. He loved…" Sherlock paused here, closed his eyes. "He was little. He was about 5'7" at age 18. Even though he was short, but he was firm. I could swirl around him in a frenzy like a hurricane and he would stay calm in the midst of it all. Sometimes if I swept myself up too quickly, I would look at him and he would be steady and I would stop. And then the whole world would stop turning. Everything would disappear but him. It was…." Sherlock licked his lips. "Four years ago… he called me from University. He had been away for the entire year. He… called me and… he…" Sherlock swallowed. He fought the urge to scratch at his skin. "After that… I felt completely alone. I couldn't believe he would do that over phone-" he stopped. "And I fell into a depression. It wasn't as bad as this… for some reason my mind wants me to relive every beautiful thing that we did together. Make me realize what I've lost." Sherlock opened his eyes and saw that Rachel's were closed. She was listening fully… which was more than Sherlock could ask for. She wasn't staring him down… she was just listening to his words. Sherlock continued.

"Well… Mycroft had insisted that I take medication… but I threw away every depression medication that he offered." Sherlock picked at the skin on his fingers. "I wanted to help myself. I didn't want my brother's medication. My mother used to do oxycontin for laughs at a party, but sometimes I would hear her crying and she would take a pill and feel alright. I didn't want to try oxy because… I was afraid…" Sherlock chuckled and smiled wryly. "I was afraid that I would become addicted like she was." Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. "That's who John Watson is. That's why I started."

Rachel opened her eyes slowly. "Why didn't you go to John and try to rectify everything? You didn't say."

"Oh." Sherlock forced a smile. "He left for training the very next day. He joined the Army. He's…. He's been in Afghanistan for the past three years." Rachel blinked in surprise.

"Really? Just like that?"

"Yes." Sherlock said smally. "It hit me like a truck. I'm just afraid that he'll die before I get to see him one last time." Sherlock said. "It's dangerous out there."

Rachel felt a sense of understanding wash over her as she leaned in towards Sherlock.

"You still love him."

Sherlock laughed as he pulled his eyes away from Rachel. "I will always love him."

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter is John I promise. It's just a difficult struggle for Sherlock. <strong>

**THIS STORY HAS AN END I SWEAR**

**please review!**


	34. Chapter 34

John was nearly a doctor now, the medical crew here was small but efficient and they taught him all he needed to know. They were highly grateful for John because of how easily he picked up medicine. Once they had told him that his hands were steady enough for surgery it clung onto his mind.

He was finding it easier to smile about things. He was not as much of a stiff as he was before Milo had found out about Sherlock. He was still very conservative and quiet but he would sometimes chuckle at a joke. He sat with Milo's friends instead of sitting alone and he buried himself in his work. He wasn't as alone as he had been for the past few years. But he still craved solitude.

He brought out his music box and stroked its outside. A few months ago, it had fallen out of his pocket and he nearly got in trouble for it. They didn't inspect it closely, but John explained it away by saying that it calmed the wounded. He had never let anyone hear the music box, so it was technically a lie, but John swore to never be apart from it. He heard it frequently now, he turned the photo of Sherlock backwards in his frame so no one would ask questions. Whenever they asked who Sherlock was, he would simply say that he was dead and busy himself with other patients. The music from the box did, in fact, work to naturally calm the soldiers who had come back to the hospital with their legs blown off or bullet wounds in their chest. John would wind the key, open the box and get to work on the soldier with the assistance of other doctors. The soldier would hear the music and gradually calm down enough so they could stick an IV in their arm.

All in all, Everything was going well enough for John. Except, of course, the absence of Sherlock. Every time he opened the box and heard the beautiful tune, John imagined Sherlock, tall and smirking, over his shoulder making sarcastic comments. Being critical but appraising at the same time. Slipping his hand into John's and kissing him goodbye once he closed the box. John sometimes wanted to open it when he was alone, like now. He couldn't bear to, though. Because the Sherlock he imagined when he was alone was the Sherlock that was hurt beyond repair—it was the Sherlock that was in a rehabilitation center after overdosing on cocaine. It was the broken, beaten man that surely hated him. And John didn't want that.

So John opened the box when the key hadn't wound the music and turned the photograph back around. He would stare at the photograph in silence before snapping the music box shut and slipping it back into his trousers.

"Hey, John." Milo said coming back from the cafeteria with his other bunk mates, Roger and Albert. They gave him a little wave that he returned. "Are you ready to be reassigned?" Milo said with fake enthusiasm.

"I'm ready to learn more about medicine." John responded, leaning against the wall.

"Robo John." Milo rolled his eyes. "You can be upset. Even _you_ must dislike something."

"I like that I'm going to the other base because I'll be able to actually learn about surgery as opposed to just amputation." John said. Milo rolled his eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm glad that you're coming with me." Milo smiled and shrugged.

"Ahh, who wouldn't be."

John tried at a little smile but it disappeared as soon as Milo turned around. The base was three and a half hours out across the desert. They were going to take a car filled with soldiers across the desert. They were only staying there for about three months—it would make 5 years of being enlisted in the Army for John and Milo. Milo was psyched about it, but John hated it. To John, it was the anniversary of the day he left Sherlock.

Sometimes he tried to reason with himself that not everything in his life had to revolve around Sherlock. But then he realized that everything already did.

* * *

><p>They were packing up the vehicle with extra water and medical supplies. John and Milo stood next to the four other soldiers that were meant to leave. Captain Robinson yelled roll.<p>

"Dimmuck!"

"Sir!"

"Fernsler!"

"Sir!"

"Jones!"

"Sir!"

"Wallace!"

"Sir!"

"Watson!"

"Sir!"

"Yetter!"

"Sir!"

Captain Robinson turned and clicked his heels towards the Major. "All accounted for, Major Tyler."

The major nodded her head slowly and gave a minor speech about desert conditions. She called for them all to take their places in the vehicle. They did. John closed his eyes as they headed out into the sandy pit.

* * *

><p>Milo had been talking his ear off for the past 3 hours. He had been on missions before, he'd been into towns that barely spoke English and brought water to thirsty children. He'd seen the battlefield when guerilla fighters ambushed their platoon. Milo had been awarded some sort of medal for dragging two of his team members away from the bullets and cared for their wounds. By the time he had finished, another member of his team had neutralized the threat and calmed the situation. John had heard this story so many times, but he was hearing it again. John had been in the hospital, sometimes he would go out into the desert, but he mostly stayed in and studied. He cared for the two wounded soldiers Milo had helped. They considered him a hero. Milo had no problem accepting this title and telling his story over and over and over again.<p>

John slipped his hand into his pocket and unconsciously rubbed his music box.

"What's that you have in your pocket?" Major Tyler said from across the vehicle. John immediately took it out of his pocket and held it on his palm.

"It's a music box, ma'am. It calms the soldier down before we put the IV drip in him. I have clearance for it, if you'd like to check." John said.

"No, no." She shrugged. "I was merely curious. Now who's 'Sherlock Holmes'?"

John's mouth pressed into a thin line and gave his usual response.

"He's dead." He couldn't escape the conversation now. And he would never give another indirect answer to his superior. She paused and shrugged.

"I'm sorry for it."

John nodded solemnly and dropped the silver box back in his pocket.

Milo nudged John. "So—as I was saying—"

"Dear lord, Wallace, if you don't stop _speaking—"_ Captain Robinson groaned. "No soldier is going to take you seriously if you keep boasting." Milo sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was obviously pouting and John chuckled at him.

Yetter was humming a song at the wheel.

Jones and Dimmuck were talking idly about their wives back home and Fernsler was moping in a corner.

John took all of this in during the last few seconds as he zipped the pocket on his trousers.

Then…the world exploded.

John was flung to the roof of the van as the car rolled over on itself. It rolled over and over down the desert dune and off the road, just barely missing a cluster of stones. The car had stopped rolling finally. John struggled to get to his feet, but his vertigo was off and the car was on fire. The metal in the back of the car where Fernsler was sitting was shredded and burnt from the blast. John could just barely distinguish a blood curdling shriek of a woman. Jones was carrying Fernsler who was legless from the knee down, her eyes wide in panic. Milo grabbed John's elbow and pulled him out of the back of the car, his gun poised, the Major and the Captain were shouting orders at them all. John followed them obediently. Jones and Fernsler leaned up against a far rock, Jones tying off her upper leg. Jones had tossed his pack to the side thoughtlessly. Dimmuck ran over to help Jones. He treaded over sand that had not been touched and John heard Jones scream at him to stop. It was too late. John was just into position when the sand beneath them turned to glass with a second explosion. It was so deafeningly close that John was blasted to his back. A charred mixture of Fernsler and Jones flew past his ear, her blood splattering his uniform. Flesh bouncing off of Milo, Milo not moving an inch in fear of triggering another bomb.

Shots fired. Somewhere in the rocks above them, there was a sniper or some sort of enemy gunman. He was shooting at the remaining five and Major Tyler and Captain Robinson concentrated their fire on the rock while Milo, John, and Yetter covered their backs. The Captain was shot in the shoulder right before one of his marks landed. The gun was so powerful that it went straight through the Captain and right into Milo's back. Milo screamed and fell to the ground. Another bomb went off a few paces from them. Everyone was blown off their feet, but the Major tried to keep her ground and continued shooting at the enemy. John was trying his best to think like a soldier and not a doctor. He wriggled on his stomach to try and right his world. It took all the effort in him, but John dragged Milo to a corner by the rock. The Captain was on the ground gritting his teeth like a soldier.

"I'm so sorry, Watson." He said to John. "You're just a doctor."

John frowned seriously and clenched his jaw.

"I'm not just a doctor, Captain." He said. "I'm a soldier."

John swung the Captain over his shoulders and ran him over to the cover of the rocks where Milo was putting pressure on his wound. Blood was seeping through his fingers. Milo was twitching awkwardly when John laid the Captain down next to Milo. He saw that the bullet had not shot a major artery and had to get the Captain to press on his injury.

"I shot him…" The Captain breathed. "I shot the bastard…."

"You shot one of them." John said, pulling out his gun. "There are going to be at least two." He looked back to the Major and Yetter. Her leg was twisted in an impossible angle and Yetter was holding her up. John ran back out into the open and scanned the area. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed the sick air in through his nose slowed the world. He opened his eyes.

For a second, he could see everything. The world shrunk and he gazed at them with the tunnel vision of ice blue eyes. He saw the drag marks of a tripod on the rock raised behind them. He saw where the dust had been brushed off of the rock so someone could have a better grip for climbing. And finally, he saw the gleam of a lens flashing in the hot sun. He raised his gun, hand steady and emptied five rounds. Blood sprayed from his target. They fired one more shot and it connected at John's left shoulder inches away from his heart.

He fell to the ground from the force of the shot. A final bomb exploded just where the car had been, and it sent metal everywhere. John tried to raise his hands to cover his face but the pain from the bullet wound was too much to raise his left arm. His legs were searing with the worst pain that John could imagine. He wanted to vomit from the pain. The sand was sticky with blood. The Major was forced to her stomach on the ground. Yetter, impaled by a metal shard in his neck, fell on John, his heavy dead meat crushing John's already flaming legs. The smells were the worst. The smell of hot blood and the vicious mixture of burning hair and flesh sent John's head spinning. John gulped at the air, desperate for something usual like oxygen, but he could only breathe in the smoke of either his legs or Yetter's. He turned to look at the Major. She was gritting her teeth in pain, still trying to slump herself up, calling for anyone on the radio. He finally let go of his pride when he tried to push Yetter off of him, moving a strip of cloth over his raw skin. He shrieked. The dam was broken. His emotions came spilling out in a hysterical way. He could feel his consciousness slipping. He was losing too much blood. He could feel his last bit of life literally draining out of his shoulder with each pump of his heart. He couldn't die. He couldn't die yet! He hadn't told Sherlock the truth! He hadn't heard Sherlock's voice one last time! He couldn't die! He couldn't! He was shrieking in pain and fear. He could hear the Major's voice trying painfully to soothe him from the end of a very, very long tunnel. He felt the hard box press against his leg. He called for Sherlock. He prayed to live. He knew that the bullet was too close to his heart. He knew that it was likely that another bomb would go off. He knew that he would die here, sticky and swearing in the sand. And he knew that he would die with Sherlock thinking that he hated him.

* * *

><p><strong>So...<strong>

**(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry but I'm not sorry at all)**


	35. Chapter 35

The first six months of treatment dragged on forever. Sherlock saw no end to the desire that he felt for cocaine. Then, about three months after that… his mind became much clearer. He would accompany Irene on walks. He wouldn't talk to her much, he'd insult her taste in company and laughed whenever she claimed that she was smarter than him, but he was still able to go outside. It was beautiful outside. Sherlock didn't even bother to try and find joy in the beauty of the grounds. It was only when Mycroft dropped off his violin that Sherlock fully realized that it was easier to think. His violin in his hands- the extension of himself- he sat down and played out beautiful notes right there in the main lobby. He closed his eyes and pictured John. The notes turned slightly sad but he fought it. It was difficult to fight the depression of something he couldn't fix. Irene was helpful enough. Rachel was as well. He would invite Irene to a therapy session and play for the entire hour. Rachel and Irene would listen wordlessly as Sherlock played tune after tune of beautiful music.

One day he stopped early and sat down.

"Are you finally going to tell me about John Watson?" Irene said, leaning forward. Sherlock's cheek twitched in annoyance. There was a line that he was not going to cross with Irene. He needed to physically be close to someone daily or he would dive into his own mind and get lost in the mush that generated there. He didn't have to tell her his life story. She had taken it upon herself to tell Sherlock everything about her life, seeming to think that it was a fair trade. Sherlock told her the name of his brother in return. He was very closed off, but he needed a support, as much as he loathed admitting it.

Rachel looked at Irene and shook her head. "If he doesn't want to tell you he doesn't have to."

"Oh boo you." Irene sighed at her. "Just because you know all about John Watson."

"Can we please stop talking about him?" Sherlock said hoarsely. They both shut up quickly. Irene picked at her fingernails as Sherlock lifted his violin to his chin. He hesitated and then plucked at his violin. He started to describe John with the music. He plucked for his laughter and pulled for his sweetness. At the end of the short melody, he looked at Irene and Rachel.

"Did you catch it?" He asked. These two had been around him for eight months. Even though he hadn't really opened up to them, he still believed that they might understand his language.

"Catch what?" Rachel frowned.

"What the song was about."

"I…" Irene looked sideways at Rachel. "No. No, Sherlock. It was beautiful, though. Are we supposed to know?"

"No." Sherlock murmured softly, subconsciously rubbing his fingers up the neck of his violin. John had only known him for three weeks and was able to understand Sherlock. Sherlock lowered his instrument slowly and sighed. He missed John with an aching, but it was the first time he thought about John without wanting a hit. He was able to live, at least a little bit, without John.

* * *

><p>"Could you turn it to BBC News?" Sherlock said sitting around in the lounge. The kid next to him rolled his head around to face Sherlock. He shrugged and handed Sherlock the remote. The familiar accent was pleasant to hear. At first. He sat listening to it for a while, barely paying attention. The man who had been sitting next to him went to go play foosball with a friend. Sherlock was just watching to listen to the accent until a word caught his attention.<p>

"-was an attack on a small group of soldiers in the Afghan desert-" Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned the volume up to hear better. "Four are dead and four are critically injured in an attack on a platoon of British Soldiers, yesterday evening." They flashed seven photographs in a row, Sherlock crying out when they showed John's serious face. He closed his eyes to preserve the image.

"Fortunately, they were close enough to a base to receive help. Upon arrival, four were already dead, and four were injured, two of which were in critical condition. We will have more on this as information is presented." The woman turned and started on a different story.

"No, NO!" Sherlock shouted. They all turned to him. "No… names of the dead! Please…." Sherlock said. "No…. no-"

"Is everything alright, Mr. Holmes?" An orderly approached him.

"I need to call home." He gasped. "Please, I need to-"

"You can't call out of country, Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry."

"I need to!" He demanded. "Please."

"I'm sorry." He said firmly. "But we can't."

Sherlock pursed his lips and stormed back to his room where Irene was sitting on Sherlock's bed, reading a book. Sherlock was seconds from throwing a chair. He tried to stave off the ghost of a craving that was boiling in his stomach. It could quickly develop to bring him to his knees.

"What?" Irene said quickly, putting her book down. "What's happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Come with me to Rachel's."

"Sherlock, what is it?" Irene said, leaning forward. "Don't tell me that you're having a craving."

"I…." Sherlock swallowed and took her hand. She looked down at it with surprise in her eyes. "Just come with me."

Sherlock burst into Rachel's room and Rachel was lying in the patient chair, taking a nap. She jerked awake at the noise. She noticed Sherlock holding Irene's hand.

"You're touching." Rachel noted. "And you're slamming doors. Yes, you can come in."

"He may be dead." Sherlock said painfully. "He could… he could be dead, Rachel, I don't know what I'd do if he died—I haven't seen him yet- I haven't- he _can't _be-"

"Woah, woah, woah, Sherlock—slow down." She said. "John. How do you know this?"

"I saw it. On the news. They showed his face. A vehicle was blown up. Several bombs…. And guns…. Three people died, four were injured, two of them severely. I—" Sherlock's throat seized. "He—He could—"

"Sherlock…."

"He can't be, though. I haven't seen him yet."

Three knocks on the door before it opened. An orderly held a cordless phone.

"Call for Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock scrambled to the door and grabbed the phone, pressing it to his ear.

"Mycroft." He said, desperately.

"He's alive." Mycroft said immediately. He let out a breath and sat down on the chair. Sometimes he appreciated his brother for knowing exactly what he wanted to hear. "He's got burns and a bullet hit him in his shoulder, incredibly close to his heart. It was touch and go during surgery, but the bullet was removed and he is making a recovery." Sherlock closed his eyes and let the numbness settle in. The desire to do cocaine was much, much weaker in his mind than the desire to see John.

"He's not dead." Sherlock repeated, his voice steady.

"Keep up, Sherlock." Mycroft teased. He hesitated. "Do you realize it yet?"

"Why did this happen? I'm not pursuing him anymore! I haven't worked a single case! I've been trapped over here for months! Why would he do this?" Sherlock shouted. "Why injure and not kill?"

"I don't think this was Moriarty." Mycroft said. "Intel is that Moriarty has been struggling to recover from the damage that you inflicted before you left. He hasn't been in Afghanistan for half a year now."

"You're pursuing him?" Sherlock said. "You told me that you thought I was insane!"

"That's because you were, Sherlock. You were addicted to cocaine. I've known that Moriarty is real ever since you first presented the cases." Sherlock was angry.

"So why aren't you doing anything?"

"I am." Mycroft bit. "He's been out of Afghanistan for six months now and that is not by coincidence." There was a pause. "If Moriarty were still over there and he wanted John dead, John would be dead. This was another terrorist cell. Separate."

"What do you mean 'out of Afghanistan'? How did you manage to undermine him?"

"He told you that he didn't have any weaknesses, yes?" Mycroft chuckled. "That is not entirely true. He has one weakness, Sherlock, and that is you."

"Me?" Sherlock frowned.

"Yes. He's spent too much energy bullying you. He left some ends loose and we picked them up."

Sherlock swallowed hard. His mind drifted back to John. "That means—"

"Yes."

"But he can't be. I don't believe it. Something will go wrong and… he won't make it."

"But I've seen the tickets myself."

"How long?"

"Six weeks."

Sherlock gave a start. "I should be out by then." Sherlock said. "I'm out in four weeks, I should be out by then."

"You have to prove that you're not addicted anymore to get out, Sherlock."

"I'm really not. You can ask my therapist, she's right here." Sherlock said. "I swear, Mycroft."

"I'm still not sure you understand, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "His return could trigger you—especially if he turns away."

"If it does, I'll come right back to America, I swear it." Sherlock nodded. "But I need to see him. I need to see him, Mycroft, if only just in passing."

Mycroft sighed. "How do you feel?"

"What, do you think _you're _my therapist now?" He scoffed.

"Sherlock this is big. This is huge." Mycroft paused. "John is coming home."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took that in. John didn't want to come home of his own accord, he would be forced to come back by a bullet and a bomb. Mycroft said a word of farewell before hanging up.

Sherlock put the phone down. He pursed his lips, closed his eyes and started speaking.

"When we first met, John just sat down at my table at lunch and started speaking to me. I had already gained a reputation after deducing some girl. It was… strange that he still wanted to talk to me. And then he didn't and I… I needed to talk to him. So I kept doing things to attract his attention. I wanted to make him talk to me, you know? Eventually I broke down and I approached him. There was something about him at the time…." Sherlock's breath caught, but he continued. He had told Rachel who John was. He didn't tell her who John was to him. "We were together romantically within a few weeks. I essentially lived at his house. He could speak my language. He knew just what to say and what to do—He made… he made ordinary people tolerable."

"Ordinary people?" Rachel asked.

"No offense, but you are all so incredibly dull. Everyone. You don't see so many obvious details. There was only one other man who seemed to—nevermind." Sherlock said. He had skated around the topic of Moriarty. He hated not being able to expose the criminal, but he kept Moriarty a secret to save John. It was always about John, wasn't it? "We… were able to do this thing… where we could just look at one another… and we would able to see in each other's eyes how… how much we cared. It was humbling. He was frequently annoyed by me, though. I would often… perform experiments on him. I am quite a bit of a handful, but that… it was expected." Sherlock closed his eyes and backed up into one of the corners and slid to the floor. He continued muttering. "I don't care if he doesn't love me. Or… Yes. Yes I do care. But it won't stop me for seeing him one last time."

"He's been injured." Rachel supplied. "In battle. And he's coming home as wounded in action."

"He's going to be in Hethrow in six weeks. That's where I'm going to be. I should be getting out of here soon. And then I'll swim my way back to England if I have to."

"You won't have to." Rachel said. "As your doctor, I recommend that you go and see him. I think that you need closure with John. He didn't give you that. He just left. If you relapse from the pain of it all, then I'll see you back here for another six months. But I want you in that airport, Sherlock." Sherlock nodded and swallowed roughly. He hated how he opened up to these two people that he barely knew, but he found that he was bursting at the seams by keeping John a secret. When they were together, he didn't have to tell people that they were together. It was known. You could look at one and know that the other completed him.

Apart they were vulnerable. Together they were invincible.

* * *

><p><strong>Are you happy? There was a reason for the last chapter, although I sort of took the liberty to torture as much as possible. There still is a bit more torture, though. It'll all come together, I promise. Or do I? You really can't trust me at this stage, look what I've done to the characters that I love. <strong>

**Anyway... reviews are welcome!**


	36. Chapter 36

When John finally regained consciousness, he couldn't believe it. He actually _couldn't _believe it. He laughed. He woke up bruised and achey and had to struggle to stay awake but he laughed anyway. He was happy. He had not been so happy in years. He was alive—he had _survived. _His arm was in a sling and his shoulder hurt like hell. His legs were stiff and numb and his head was throbbing. He could feel a slight sting on his cheek and his forehead. He turned to look at the bunk next to him. Milo was sitting up, his shoulder wrapped tightly. He was turning the pages of his book when he looked up at John. His face split into a smile.

"He's awake!" Milo said happily. "Welcome to the living world, mate!"

"Milo… how did we make it out of there?" He said.

"We were close enough to the other base, conveniently. They heard all the ruckus and flew right out to see us." Milo hesitated. "You almost died, John."

"Yeah I know." John murmured. "I could feel it." "Did you have a near-death experience or anything?" Milo asked. John chewed on his lip before responding,

"No." He moved his shoulders a little bit. "It was just… dark. Endless dark."

"Oh." Milo said. "That's too bad. I mean, if you're going to nearly die it might as well be an interesting situation."

One of the doctors came in and smiled at John's alertness.

"Ah! Good to see you awake, Dr. Watson. I was hoping to first meet you in a better condition."

"I was hoping the same thing."

"Well." She said smiling as she grabbed his file. "Let's see. Rest for two more weeks—we'll continue grafting the skin on your burnt legs and change your bandages… and then four weeks of physical therapy for your arm and legs, alright?"

John nodded. "What happens after that?"

"Well…" She sighed. "I was looking forward to working with you, John. But you're going to have to finish your studies at home."

John's lips parted and his eyes widened. The blips on the heart monitor increased in pace. "I… You mean I'm going home? I'm going back to England?"

"Yes." She nodded. "We've informed your mother of your return. We would send you home sooner, but your skin isn't taking to the grafts well enough." She shrugged. "It is, but it's just taking a while."

"And I'm not as bad off, but I wanted to go home with you. I've got dead arm, essentially, and it twitches an awful lot. I think the bullet struck a nerve because I can barely move it. I could've gotten the next plane out, but I want to stay with you." Milo sad happily. "Basically it's physical therapy here or back home."

"Where do you live?"

"Four and half years he knows me and now he asks!" Milo laughed. John sighed.

"Nevermind, I don't want to know if you're going to be smart about it."

"Northampton." He said. "I want to live in London when I get back.

"I lived in Bromley." John said. "It was nice, I guess. My mum couldn't afford much, but we lived nice enough. I want to live in London too."

"I've never even been." Milo said.

"I have. A couple times. With a friend."

"Sherlock?" Milo asked. John's heart fell at the name. Sherlock. Of course. He was going into London. Moriarty would keep them apart with all of the effort he could muster. The plane would fall. His first attempt to kill John failed, so now he'd have to shoot the plane down or something. John closed his eyes and sighed. He would enjoy the last few weeks he had of being alive. He would try and recover to his fullest on the off chance that he survived a plane crash.

The happiness he had felt for living slowly boiled back down to his usual level. He had become accustomed to closing its eyes and wiping his face clean of emotion. Milo told him that people thought that he was mysterious when he did this. He assured Milo that he was.

* * *

><p><strong>wow this is <em>tiny<em>**

**it got the point across though. John still thinks that there is a possibility that the plane will be shot down.**

**Bahh I'll post another.**

**review please~**


	37. Chapter 37

Graduating was easy. It wasn't so much a graduation as much as it was Rachel signing a piece of paper and handing it to the in-house doctors. Rachel signed off Irene as well. Sherlock begrudgingly asked her to accompany him to England. She was ecstatic and bit pretentious but accepted.

Rachel stood in the main entrance, her hands clasped behind her.

"It has been a pleasure and an honor, Sherlock Holmes." Rachel said, holding out a hand to shake. Sherlock took it gratefully and hesitated before pulling her into a quick hug. It was strange how he had reacted under this roof. He wouldn't be like this when he left. She smiled brilliantly and a handed him a small slip of paper.

"If you ever make it stateside again." She said. "I would love to chat."

"Certainly." Sherlock said, stowing the number away in his coat pocket. "Thank you, Rachel." He murmured. "Thank you."

"No problem." She brushed off. "You're the most interesting patient that I've ever had." She dropped his hand and stepped away.

"Goodbye." Sherlock said.

"Goodbye!" Irene said happily. They stepped out into the front courtyard and walked to the cab waiting for them. Sliding inside, the cabbie said,

"I can take you anywhere in New Jersey, New York or Eastern Pennsylvania for free."

"They must pay you well."

"Yeah, they do." He chuckled.

"Where's the nearest airport?"

"That'd be…. Philadelphia." The taxi driver said. "It's about an hour from here.

"Could you take us there?" Sherlock said.

"No problem." He turned around and started the car.

"Did you buy tickets?" Irene asked.

"No, but I'm certain that Mycroft did." Sherlock said, picking at his fingernails.

"Stop doing that." Irene slapped at his hand.

"Okay, let me just do cocaine instead." He said sarcastically. "I'm not doing anything bad, it's just nervous habit."

"Two weeks." She said gently. "How do you feel about it?"

"Oh, I'm just calm as ever." He snapped. "Look at me, Sherlock 'not a care in the world' Holmes. It's not like I haven't seen him in five years or anything."

"Jeez, Sherlock." She said. "I get that you're nervous or whatever."

"I really don't want to talk about it." He said.

"You never want to talk about anything."

"And yet you still try to get me to talk about my life—and your attempts are pathetic." He was staring out of the window. Irene was used to the abuse and just shrugged as She pulled out her iPod from her bag. Sherlock had packed his luggage in the back with the exception of a notebook, a regular book, some pens and his music box. Irene refused to put anything in the back. Sherlock understood. All of her worldy possessions were packed in that bag and she didn't want to loose them. Which reminded him.

"How updated is your passport?"

"I went out a couple weeks ago to get it renewed." She said, raising it from her pocket. "Just after you asked me to come with you." Sherlock nodded.

"Good." Sherlock murmured and turned back to the window.

* * *

><p>Arriving at the airport, Sherlock had a few memories come back to him. Mycroft had landed in this airport when they had come here a year ago. He hadn't taken a commercial flight, but he remembered walking through these dreary halls.<p>

"What a depressing place." Sherlock muttered in the entrance of one of the turning glass doors. A man in a suit approached him.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. He had a fantastic British accent that almost made Sherlock smile. He was sick of the way these Americans spoke. "Your jet is ready."

"Jet?" Irene said, her eyes wide. Sherlock shrugged.

"I thought that Mycroft would make me sit in a commercial plane, but I suppose he's feeling sympathetic. No matter, at least I profit."

"We'll need to check your passports and your luggage." he said, leading them away. Sherlock shrugged. Irene followed.

"Private jet? Are you rich?" She asked quietly.

"My brother is."

* * *

><p>The beauty of a private jet was that there was no waiting. There were no crying children, no over enthusiastic tourists, no people who played their mp3s too loud. Once the plane made it to cruising altitude, Sherlock really appreciated all of these things. Irene was lounging in her chair, her shoes off and her feet curled underneath her, staring at Sherlock intensely.<p>

"What, what is it?" He snapped.

"I'm trying to figure out what kind of lover you are." She said. "Everyone falls into a certain category."

"I'm not a sexual person, Irene." He sighed. "I'm not going to fall into place—"

"I'm not talking about sex."

"First time in weeks then." He smiled bitterly.

"I'm talking about the kind of lover you are." She said. Her eyes were boring holes into Sherlock. "How you love." She stood up, her long skirt swishing, and sat on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair.

"Are you a gentle lover? A clingy one? Are you spontaneous, needy, or quiet?" Sherlock wouldn't look at her and instead looked out the window. "Do you take pride in your lover or would you keep quiet and keep them all to yourself."

"I don't understand." Sherlock said after a while. "The kind of person I am determines the kind of lover I am. I don't understand what you're asking."

"When you were around him, how did you act?"

"I simply was." He frowned.

"You weren't playful? Did you tease him? Did you put yourself into a dominating position and smirk at him? I can see the last one being you."

"No… none of that really. We were just…" Sherlock pursed his lips. "This conversation is over."

"I just want to know—"

"As soon as we land I can send you straight back." He hissed. "It doesn't matter what kind of lover I was because it's over. He's made his decision and I'm going to live with it if he wants. I'll relapse. I'll go back to America and buddy up with Rachel for two more years, but I'll have closure and that's all I am able to get. Lover or not." He said.

Irene looked at her hands. "But what if it's not over. What if he sees you and remembers—"

"Shut up!" He bellowed. "I am not going to entertain that possibility because I don't have it in me to hope anymore. Hope is a weakness—a weakness that I have crushed with cocaine and now you're trying to implant it in my head again? You really think that having my hopes crushed is going to help this impending relapse?"

"You're not going to relapse because I'm not going to let you."

"You couldn't stop me." He hissed. "That's not the point. I am not going to begin to imagine that anything good is going to happen in two weeks. I'm simply looking to see him. That is pleasure enough for me."

Irene was quiet. She stood up quietly and sat back in her seat. "Do you think you'll ever love again?"

"No."

"But what if you do?"

"I won't."

"You'll stay bitter until you die alone, then?"

"In my line of work, that could be in a few years." Sherlock mumbled. He turned on the television, if only to drown out Irene's voice. Someone had put the Return of the King in the DVD player. Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed play. He didn't watch the movie.

What did it matter what sort of lover Sherlock was? It didn't matter. That sort of thing only mattered if he were seeking someone, if he wanted to be compatible with several other people. Sherlock was only compatible with one other person in the entire world.

* * *

><p><strong>Beh I don't know what to write here<strong>

**Maybe I should just shut up and let you read**

**but tell me what you think, please!**


	38. Chapter 38

Physical therapy had been a godsend. Being unable to move his left arm, especially when he was left-handed, was quite possibly the most frustrating thing John had ever experienced. Milo liked to laugh at him because he got angry very quickly. John would laugh sarcastically and then spill his water on himself trying to drink with his right hand. This only made Milo laugh even more. Milo had developed an uncontrollable tremor in his right arm, the side where he had been shot. He was just as unable to hold his cups as John was, and John would laugh bitterly at Milo. Milo would respond by dumping his drink over John.

By the last week of physical therapy, he had been able to work his muscles back into condition, the pain medication had been lessened, and his limp was nearly gone. They recommended certain exercises for John to practice when he got home and they recommended that he continue going to physical therapy to get rid of his limp. His burnt leg was still pretty badly scarred, but the skin was now thick as opposed to raw and new. He would sometimes go visit Major Tyler in her bed. Unlike John, this was her job. She could be injured and thrown right back in after recovery. John could be a doctor anywhere. The Major could only be a Major in the military.

Milo's injury was completely healed, save for the uncontrollable tremor. He was just waiting around to be on the plane ride home with John. Captain Robinson was always holed up in his room. Perhaps this was just one too many missions gone wrong for him. John didn't like to ask.

John pictured these last moments as the last few moments he would have before he died. It certainly wasn't terrible—Milo joking around all the time, Major Tyler talking about her five-year-old niece. The food could be better but the company was comfortable. As always he could ask for one more person, but that was the reason he was in this mess in the first place. He would sigh, stop feeling sorry for himself, and accept his sentence knowing that Sherlock was safe in America, still on the trail of Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock would figure out the nature of his death—why John died. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't hate him so much if he knew. But John didn't keep his hopes up. If it was his last work, John was certain that Moriarty would do as much as he possibly could to make Sherlock believe that John didn't love him. He would consider it as winning, even if Sherlock caught him.

Getting dressed up in his freshly-laundered army camo, he thought of this. His bag slung over his shoulders, Sherlock's music box in his pocket, he stared into the mirror before he turned to Milo, who nodded seriously. Milo had a slight smile on his face, as though it could never fully be erased. John was thankful for it because he could feed off of it if necessary. He needed it now.

They boarded the plane. They took off into the sky. John looked around at all the good soldiers who were going to die for him. After about two hours of John's nervous fidgeting, Milo put a hand on John's shoulder.

"John, are you alright?"

John licked his lips and shook his head. Milo searched John's face.

"Do you want a sleeping pill? Should knock you out for the whole ride." He nodded, closed his eyes and accepted a sleeping pill from Milo. He hadn't taken his pain medication because there was really no point if he was just going to die anyway. John grabbed the water and took the pill. About 20 minutes later, he looked into Milo's eyes sadly. Milo frowned.

"I'm sorry." He murmured, placing a hand on Milo's sincerely. He was being pulled down into sleep. "I'm really sorry."

"Sorry for what…?" John just barely caught the words before his eyes drooped shut. Some of his last thoughts were about Sherlock. He smiled a little before being completely knocked out. It couldn't be all that terrible, dying. Perhaps he would relive his favorite moments with Sherlock. He had no idea how he could relive an entire three years in a few seconds, however. Sherlock blinked once and John was out like a light.

* * *

><p>Milo shook John awake. John awoke with a start, the drug completely out of his system. The plane was still. Soldiers were standing around the plane, pulling down their luggage. John's eyes were open wide, his heart beating two times too fast.<p>

"Come on, sleepyhead!" Milo said excitedly. "That's British soil under those tires!"

John was shaking, hyperventilating. There was no way. There was no possible way that he could actually be in London. No. He refused to believe it. Maybe this was heaven. Maybe his is how he died.

"Am I dead?" he asked sincerely. Milo laughed.

"No…? Did you have a dream from the battle or something? You seemed happy while you were sleeping."

John pinched himself. His hands were still shaking uncontrollably. His mother. His mother and Harry. And their dog! They had a dog now, named Gladstone. Sherlock was in America, but Mycroft. He could… maybe he could get… a phone…

John's heart fell a little bit, knowing that Sherlock was still thousands of miles away, and there was plenty of time to kill John in the mean time, but he was here. He was in England. He was _home._

* * *

><p><strong>This was a tiny chapter, but in another draft it went a completely different way. <strong>

**Yeah, I could've been heartbreaking but I _wasn't. _**

**Here comes the bad news- I don't know how long it is before I post another chapter. Sorry! So close though, right?**

**Reviews are welcome!**


	39. Chapter 39

Sherlock had found that waiting two weeks for a plane to land was physical torture. It was the true test of his sobriety. There were some nights where Irene had to handcuff Sherlock to herself just to be certain that Sherlock would not slip away. Mycroft was grateful to Irene for this. Several more times Irene had tried to talk about how seeing John in passing would effect Sherlock. Sherlock would ignore her. He would pretend that she didn't exist or, if he were able to, he would walk out of the room.

The most difficult journey during these two infinite weeks was when Sherlock had gone over to Mrs. Watson's house. Walking through the front doors of the house that he once called home was painful. He had fallen in love here, there were so many fond memories pressing themselves into these walls. Sherlock had gone to ask if he could retrieve John from the airport. It had taken some convincing at first. She wanted to know why they both couldn't go and pick John up together. Sherlock had to explain, painfully, that John would come home to her either way. Most likely, he wouldn't want to be seen with Sherlock. If Sherlock was there with his mother, John may feel forced into making contact with Sherlock. Sherlock just wanted to see him. It would be his only time. John could get a cab home to see his mother, but he would never get a cab home to see Sherlock.

Mrs. Watson covered his hand with her own and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. She said that it was alright for Sherlock to see John. And she would be very disappointed if John returned home without him. Irene was just observing this, taking it all in. She had learned not to make many comments anymore, unless she wanted a tense Sherlock screaming harsh insults at her. It was understandable as the day drew nearer.

Waiting two weeks was torture. What was even worse than that was waiting the final hour before the plane landed. Sherlock was pacing in the terminal, unable to stand still.

"Have you used?" She joked.

"I feel like I have, I can't shut my brain up." He said, opening and closing his hands. "Why can't time just… move faster?" he shouted. "I don't understand."

"Well yelling is not going to help anything."

"Not true, it helps me." Sherlock said, sitting down in a plastic chair. "How much time left?"

"Ten minutes." Irene said, looking at her watch. "Five minutes less than the last time you asked me."

Sherlock wanted to throw something. Then all of a sudden a calm washed over him. This may be the last time he ever caught sight of John Watson. He needed to seem okay. He couldn't come off as weepy or desperate. He didn't want John to feel guilted back to him. He didn't want to prove John right on the words that he had said on the phone all those years ago—Sherlock didn't want to try and change John's mind.

"Flight 2884 has just landed." They called over the intercom in the terminal. Sherlock froze on the spot and took his place next to Irene. He was shaking just a little bit before he completely calmed himself. He closed his eyes and opened them again after a steadying breath. He cleared his face. He looked at the door that had John's flight number above it in flashing text. He found the world to be moving in slow motion.

When the people started walking off of the plane, he felt his heart race. He kept the illusion of indifference, but inside he was as tense as he physically could be. Irene rest a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off. Man after man in camouflage walked off the plane, some spinning their children around, others kissing their wives sweetly. None of them were John.

* * *

><p>Walking off the plane, John expected explosions. He could almost taste the battlefield; his hands were tight around his luggage. Milo was walking ahead of him. He was tense, ready for action, ready to duck from a bomb or be hit by a bullet. He was ready to face whatever Moriarty could throw. Almost ready.<p>

Walking out into the areaway, John only really caught a glimpse of Hethrow before Milo saw his parents and exclaimed happily. John's eyes followed Milo. He was glad that Milo had been reunited with his family. He thought that he would have Milo's death rest on his conscious.

* * *

><p>Sherlock saw John before John saw him. A man with dark brown hair and bright brown eyes yelled happily when he saw what looked to be his parents. Sherlock literally lost his breath. He couldn't breathe. John was every piece of perfect that he remembered. John didn't see him yet. Sherlock finally found his breath again and he tried to control his face… but John was right there. He was right <em>there<em>. Sherlock could run out, grab him and hold him if he wanted. His gait was different, his face was so serious, his eyes were hardened and dead, but that was his John, locked somewhere beneath that military shell. He was gripping onto his bag tightly. John looked away from his friend and looked around the terminal passively. He did a double take when he caught eyes with Sherlock. Sherlock froze, closed his mouth, and nodded once. He wanted to assert that there was no obligation for John to come over to Sherlock.

* * *

><p>John looked away from Milo and his parents. He glanced around the room, passively, wondering where he could get some chips. A flash of something heartbreakingly beautiful caught his eyes and he looked back. Something chilly and blue transfixed him; and they were the same exact color as the gems on the silver music box in his pocket. He was staring into the face of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock nodded solemnly. He was standing with someone, but John couldn't see who that person was. He gained tunnel vision—only one thing in this entire world mattered to him. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was here! In this terminal! John's lips parted as his breathing increased and he whispered Sherlock's name. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn't even comprehend running before he was doing so at top speed.<p>

* * *

><p>What was he doing? He was crying! Why was he crying? Sherlock felt so many mixed emotions as John's aged face dropped right into the same face he saw six years ago—young and longing, desperate and absolutely despairing. He was running, running towards Sherlock, calling out his name.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock's face flashed through so many emotions before John couldn't read them anymore because his tears were clouding his vision. He was still expecting bombs and bullets—but a freight train couldn't stop John now.<p>

* * *

><p>John was running faster and faster, the distance couldn't be closed fast enough.<p>

* * *

><p>He was running as fast as he could, calling out Sherlock's name and crying.<p>

* * *

><p>They connected.<p>

* * *

><p>John clutched onto Sherlock like he would disappear at any moment. Sherlock was still too much in shock to do anything.<p>

"I love you." John burst softly, his words spilling out in a desperate rush. "It wasn't me, I swear—it was him, it was Moriarty, he threatened me, he said he would kill you—he enlisted me in the army he told me if I didn't do it you would die, he said it, Sherlock it wasn't me I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—please, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock, don't hate me please." John searched Sherlock's eyes desperately, trying, pleading, begging for Sherlock to understand.

Sherlock blinked a few times, breathless again. The corners of his eyes stung with tears. Too much. It was too much. He looked into the sincere eyes of the man he had tried for years to force out of his system. Now here he was. It was a factor that Sherlock had never expected. He had never thought for a moment that John might still be in love.

He clenched his trembling jaw and embraced John hungrily, John sighing a sob of relief. They pulled together so tightly; it was as though they were one being trying to become whole again. John's arms felt weak at how easily Sherlock accepted him. His head spun with how much Sherlock still loved him. Sherlock still was in shock that it was Moriarty. It wasn't John. It was Moriarty. John loved him. John loved him all along. _John loved him_. John was sobbing into Sherlock's coat, all of his emotions overwhelming him. They were together. They were the only two people in the entire universe and they were together.

They slid to the floor, still tight in their embrace as Sherlock put tiny kisses in John's hair. Just like he used to. John's face softened from total despair to an expression of the utmost content. John looked at Sherlock face to face and smiled genuinely. He leaned Sherlock's head down to kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his cheeks, then his lips. Sherlock let a tiny bout of sad laughter. He repeated the action on John, lingering at the lips. John closed his eyes and settled himself into Sherlock's firm embrace, like a key that only fit to one lock.

The entire world could stop right now. Bombs could explode. He could be shot. A bag of the freshest cocaine could be waved under Sherlock's nose. Anything and everything terrible could happen and neither John nor Sherlock would notice. Because they were together.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah the point of view changed like seven times but yeah<strong>

**so much effort went into this chapter**

**the emotional upheaval I had while writing this was just... it was**

**I may or may not have cried**

**and actually while writing this I looked down at the page number and I was on page 221 and it was like the most beautiful slap in the face**

**anyway... review~**


	40. Chapter 40

Milo turned around to see John's bag left behind him, John sprinting full-force across the terminal to a tall man with black hair that could only be the Sherlock Holmes that John had a picture of in that little box. John grabbed onto him for a moment, the man unsure of what to do, his sad face confused. Milo turned back to his parents and told him that he had to go. He had never seen John like this. When he turned back, he saw that Sherlock was grasping onto John as tightly as he possibly could, frowning in determination. Milo was stunned by the conviction. There was a woman standing next to them, staring with wide eyes and parted lips, but she seemed to know Sherlock. People were clapping for the pair; it was almost impossible not to be moved by that display. Milo jogged over to reach them, but by the time he had, they were on the floor, crying, desperate for each other. He looked at the girl who had her hand over her mouth and tears dripping out of her eyes. Milo felt close to tears as well. He had never seen John like this. Never. This was a man who was serious all the time, a man who was solemn. This was not a man who sobbed in public. It seemed, though, that Milo had no clue about what sort of man John was.

Irene caught Milo's eyes, smiling sadly.

"Hi, I'm Irene Adler." She said. "You must be a friend of John's."

"Yeah… I'm Milo Wallace." He said, extending a hand. They shook. Irene seemed unable to look at Sherlock and John without crying, so she turned away. She composed herself. John kissed Sherlock on the forehead, the nose, cheeks and lips. Sherlock laughed at it. There was such a sweetness in that gesture… it was a salute of some sort. Milo found that he couldn't look either. He felt intruding.

"I didn't know." Irene said, shaking her head. "We… we thought that John was going to disregard him. We came here for closure."

"He thought that he was going to die." Milo said. "This man was always in a state of a strange acceptance. I mean, I knew about Sherlock, but… I never knew…"

"Did he talk about Sherlock?"

"No. Never. Well, once. To me. But mostly people knew about Sherlock because of that music box."

Irene frowned.

"Music box?"

"Yeah." Milo smiled fondly. "The kid took it with him everywhere."

"There are two?"

"What do you mean, 'two'?"

"Sherlock's got one too. It's got a photo of John inside. It plays such a beautiful tune."

"John's must be identical." Milo said. "His has a photo of Sherlock." His parents approached him with his bag, his father eyeing behind him beadily.

"We're going to leave now, Milo. Come with us." His mother said softly.

"I'll catch another cab. Where are you staying?"

"The Westland." She said quickly, "But—"

"Mum, I've been to hell with this man and he didn't flinch at the devil. I'm going to stay and find him out."

His father's lips pursed but he said nothing more. His mother said that she hoped to see him soon because they had dinner reservations. Milo assured them that he would. When they left, Irene laughed.

"If you're waiting on these two, we'll be in here all night."

Milo shrugged. "I know. But that's what friends do, right?"

"Did John explain Sherlock to you?"

Milo shook his head. "Not really. Just that they weren't really romantic and that Sherlock was intelligent."

"He is the strangest person I have ever met in my entire life." Irene said. "So you should prepare for that."

Irene and Milo had hit it off as friends, joking around. They bought a pack of cards and they played as many games as they could. Sherlock and John were still on the floor, unwilling to move, unresponsive to the world around them. Milo and Irene figured that they would drift on back to the real world eventually. Milo taught Irene new card games and helped her develop a stronger poker face.

* * *

><p>It was four hours before John and Sherlock opened their eyes to the world around them. Milo and Irene watched as John looked around the terminal shocked to see that it actually existed. Sherlock was still unable to look at anything but John. They were holding hands, fingers intertwined. John looked over at Milo.<p>

"Who's your friend, Milo?" John said.

"That's Irene Adler." Sherlock supplied. John looked over at Sherlock and tried his hardest not to throw himself at Sherlock again. "She's my friend."

"Oh." John said, misplaced pangs of jealousy radiating towards Irene. "This is Milo Wallace. We were in training and stationed together. I couldn't get rid of him." He laughed. He saw Sherlock's face twitch in annoyance and John's face split into a fantastic grin.

"Yeah, we've got it, we've met." Irene said, rolling her eyes. "We've been playing card games for the past four hours."

"Four hours?" John frowned. "It felt like… shorter. Or… longer." He shook his head and turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock was still gazing at him sweetly. John's heart leapt and he leaned in to plant a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock gave a slight start after John backed away.

"Your mother." He said, standing, still clutching John's hand tightly. They both felt weak. They had emotionally exhausted themselves. "She's expecting you."

"Right… Right!" He said happily. "My mum as well! Is she in London?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "She's in the Westland."

"Where are you staying?" John asked immediately.

"In Mycroft's London flat, but—"

"That's where I'm staying." John said firmly. There was that little something about John that was different. He was more serious in some respects, but not all. He knew how to command. He knew how to stand proudly. He knew how to clear his face of emotion. He was John, but a little hard from the military. It was something that Sherlock knew would never go away.

John noticed something about Sherlock too. He was thin, and his hands were covered in scars. Sherlock didn't seem to notice it, but he had a bit of a tick with his right hand. He would touch all the tips of his fingers to his thumb and then pick at the skin at his thumb. John hated to think that he led Sherlock to drugs, but he couldn't deny that it happened.

Despite these tiny changes, they still molded together perfectly. In fact, those newer bits of their personality locked them closer still. Nothing that the opposite could do would stop the other from loving them to pieces.

"We should visit her, though." Sherlock said, amused.

"Well, yeah, I want to visit her."

"Well I think we should call a cab, then." Sherlock said, smirking and pulling out his phone.

"I think that's a splendid idea."

"You know what? Better yet, let's call for something we all can fit in. I'll call for Mycroft."

"Mycroft." John repeated. Even Mycroft sent another wave of happiness down his spine. Being surrounded by familiar names and places was so relaxing, so soothing. Sherlock called Mycroft, never letting go of John's hand. John wouldn't let go of Sherlock either.

* * *

><p>Meeting Mycroft down at the pick up area was elating. When they slid into the car, There was a triumphant smirk on Mycroft's face. "Welcome home, Dr. Watson."<p>

Sherlock frowned for a moment at Mycroft before his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"You knew…" He breathed. "Mycroft, you knew that John was being threatened!"

"It was only recently that I acquired the information." Mycroft said seriously. "I first became privy to it about six months ago while you were still away. I also knew that Moriarty had an eye on you at all times. If I told you, he would just kill John before you could confirm it." John squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter and Sherlock leaned into him. They both did this subconsciously. Mycroft turned to John. "John, the effort to get you home was incredibly… it took an awful lot of effort, not only to keep it from Moriarty, but to keep it from Sherlock as well. I apologize for not contacting you sooner, but I couldn't risk Moriarty finding out. You know."

"Mycroft, you got me home." John said, staring at Mycroft. "There's nothing in the world I could do to repay you."

"Think of it selfishly." Mycroft brushed it off. "Moriarty is at the center of a criminal sect larger than I have ever seen in my life. He's so young and yet he manages everything with a skill and grace- for a moment I nearly mistook him for Sherlock. Their minds are so incredibly similar." He looked to Sherlock. "That is why I needed you at your best. I needed for you to work at your absolute best, and to do that you needed John." Mycroft leaned back. "To be completely honest, I thought that John would've gotten over you and moved on with his life. Even though Moriarty pressed him into servitude, I truly believed that excelling in the Army would help mend the hole that Sherlock created."

"Never." John said, staring at Mycroft in disbelief, gripping on to Sherlock protectively. "Never for a moment- How could you even begin to think-"

"I was merely voicing my opinions. I've never known anyone to take interest in Sherlock… or when they did it was fleeting." Mycroft shrugged.

"No. No- I love him. With everything. Forever." John said forcefully. He was offended that Mycroft could think that.

"John…" Sherlock pursed his lips. "I believed that too. It's not… your personality doesn't correlate to someone who…"

"No." John shook his head. "No. I love you. Forever. That's it. That's the deal. It's not a game, it's not a trick, it's not forced. I love you, Sherlock. Get that in your head." John was fierce in his belief. Sherlock's face softened and he leaned forward and kissed John on the forehead. He turned to Mycroft.

"How did you do it?"

"Moriarty heard that you were shot by a rogue terrorist group. It wasn't connected by him. He had heard that you were meant to go home, and he was livid. He wanted you to complete your tour in Afghanistan and he was going to kill you just before you were sent to go home. Tragic. Complete. As much pain as he could squeeze out. He had moved his terrorist cells out from observing you during the past year when he decided this. But you got injured too soon. Along with me pressuring him from one side, he pulled his attention from you and Sherlock just for a moment, where I could tell Sherlock about your arrival." Mycroft smirked at his own cunning. "I slid my way into his intel stream and he was told that the date of your plane arrival was tomorrow. He is preparing to blow up a plane tomorrow- the one that supposedly has you on it."

"Wait- this guy is going to blow up a plane?" Milo said, leaning forward. "All because of John?"

"I thought he was going to blow it up while I was on it with you today." John said. "That's why I was so surprised that we were alive. Milo's eyes were wide with horror.

"I don't… I can't believe…"

"Anyway…" Mycroft said pointedly, annoyed that the brilliant story of his cunning was interrupted. "He thinks he's throwing an interesting case towards me so I'll ignore the fact that he's about to blow up John. We both know how valuable of an asset John is. Anyone who holds John essentially holds Sherlock's psyche."

John rolled his eyes.

"You do know that I'm a person, right?"

"Yes, but you're much more than a person now. You're the person that completes Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, remember that one time where I said I couldn't thank you enough?" John smiled wryly. "Well I think I take it back. Once was more than enough."

"John, if you look at this at a political standpoint-"

"Mycroft, shut up." Sherlock said dangerously. "Don't you dare for a second imagine that John is simply someone who makes me run at peak performance. Don't you dare tell me that his life is just a chess piece in your game with Moriarty. Don't you speak about him like that in front of me." Sherlock's eyes were predatory- he was ready to attack his brother. Mycroft stopped. He pursed his lips and continued.

"I apologize." he said, a smirk on his face. "To continue… he will learn about your reunion quite soon. This is simultaneously a very good and very bad thing." Mycroft sighed as the limousine pulled in front of the Westland. "He will become volatile. He will see this as a failure. A check, if you will. Many people are going to die tonight. I don't know how, and I don't know where. I suppose that we'll here about it soon enough."

"There's nothing you can do to stop it?" John said, frowning. Mycroft shook his head.

"But he'll reveal his location." Sherlock murmured. "He's emotional. He'll be angry. He'll kill people and disappear once he's collected himself, but he'll leave a trail of bodies right to himself." Sherlock smiled. "He'll give us a hint where he was." he looked at Mycroft.

"My team is on high alert." Mycroft nodded.

"People are going to die." John tried to impress. "Isn't there anything- _anything _at all we could do to stop that?"

"Quaint." Mycroft smirked. John gritted his teeth at Mycroft and opened his mouth to retort. Sherlock headed him off.

"John… these people are going to die, and there is nothing we can do about it. These people will die, but they will help to save the lives of countless others. If we catch Moriarty, we will be able to save… exponentially more people than the ones that are inevitably going to die tonight." Sherlock said steadily. John stared into Sherlock's eyes. It got him to close his mouth and look downward. He nodded once. He accidentally caught the eye of Irene Adler who was just surveying the situation wordlessly like a cat. John could almost see her tail swishing.

"Now." Mycroft smiled genuinely. "I do believe that a mother is to be reunited with her son soon enough."

John's furrowed brows released their tension as the thought of his mother brought pricks of excitement into the back of his throat. His mother was here. He was going to see his mother.

"I've arranged for her to be in a suite." Mycroft said. "So you two could have your own room."

"I can't believe you knew about this Mycroft." Sherlock said shaking his head. "I almost want to congratulate you on surprising me."

"I do regret not being able to see the reunion firsthand. It must have been… emotional."

"People were clapping." Irene finally spoke.

"Were they?" John said. Irene nodded. Irene had this distinct expression that made John feel like he was being taken apart, piece by piece. He turned to Sherlock. "Could we go see my mum now?"

Sherlock smiled. "Certainly."

* * *

><p><strong>Mycroft being nice but also being selfish<strong>

**You never really can tell where Mycroft's loyalties lie**

**review please!**


	41. Chapter 41

Milo left them at the door, giving John a firm handshake as he made John promise to see him again. John swore to it. John's stomach was boiling with excitement as the elevator rose to the fourth floor. Sherlock squeezed his shaking hand reassuringly as they knocked on the door.

"John!" He heard excitedly behind the door. It nearly brought tears to his eyes as he heard his mother bustling to reach the door. She flew it open and caught John's eyes, and they darted immediately to Sherlock's close-mouthed smile. Her eyes widened even more. "And Sherlock!"

"Mum." He breathed, wrapping an arm around his mother as his other hand refused to leave Sherlock's grasp. He kissed her on the cheek. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, mum, but the… I…" John felt his throat seize up.

"Yes, John… that's well enough. Why don't you let me explain the situation to your mother?" Mycroft said, stepping forward. He looked towards Mycroft thankfully before remembering his anger towards Mycroft.

"I hear you two have become pals in my absence." John said.

"What?" Sherlock leaned forward, looking towards Mycroft.

"My suspicions arose when I had learned that he hadn't even told his mother that he was joining the army. I looked into it thoroughly and found that the evidence that John just went on a whim to join the army and was too wary to tell his mother because his father was in the army and he was a terrible person."

"I always felt guilty that you didn't have a father figure growing up." She said, thoughtfully. "But I reasoned that it was better not to have a father figure than to have a negative entity in the home."

"In any case," Mycroft said. "I didn't suspect that John was in danger of any sort until you started bringing forth cases that were linked. When you found out about Moriarty, I realized how taken he was by you and how abrupt John's disappearance was. I didn't connect the two until very recently—he's been giving me an awful lot of trouble."

"Yes, he tends to do that." Sherlock said. John smiled and pulled himself closer to Sherlock.

"Yes, well…" Mycroft sniffed. "I expect you to repay me, Sherlock, this was an awful lot of trouble to go through to ensure John's safety. We need Moriarty, and you are the only person who is able to catch him."

"Don't worry, Mycroft, I'll get him. But not for you." He said. "Now if you excuse us, I believe that John is a bit tired."

"How did you…" John said, giving a start. They were still in tune to each other's emotions and quirks—even after all these years. Sherlock smiled at John.

"Welcome home, by the way." Mrs. Watson said, looking to both John and Sherlock. John leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"You don't understand how good it is to be home." Sherlock breathed.

"Where's Harry?" John asked.

"She's in Bromley. She's gotten a flat with a new girlfriend."

"We've got her under surveillance, just in case Moriarty targets her in some way." Mycroft said. "Your family is safe, John. Just in case you were worried for some reason."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Even if I know you're keeping them safe for Sherlock's sake. As long as they're safe, I don't care why you're doing it."

"Phooey. It's not only for Sherlock's sake, I hope!" Mrs. Watson said. "Mycroft and I have grown acquainted enough for him to worry for my personal safey, I'd say." She waved John and Sherlock off. "Off you two go, now. Don't let us interrupt whatever time you need to get reacquainted."

"Thank you, mum." John said sincerely. John and Sherlock walked off towards the second bedroom, passing Irene who was lounging on the couch, surveying them.

She and Sherlock shared a look that John couldn't read before Sherlock continued. That frustrated John, but all thoughts of that slipped his mind when the door clicked behind him, shutting in the silence of the hotel room.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes. He felt his chest warm somewhere just below his heart and just above his stomach. Staring into Sherlock's eyes, drinking in Sherlock's love… it was more than he could begin to grasp. Sherlock stood, holding John's arms squarely and kissed him on the mouth. They both kept their eyes open a crack, afraid that the other would disappear if sight were lost. Slowly, suredly, Sherlock brought them to the bed. John was undressing, piece by piece until he was down to his undershirt and boxers—Sherlock was in his shirt and briefs.

"I…" Sherlock whispered gently against John's skin. "Could you please take off all of your clothes?"

John whimpered as a shaking tear fell from his eye. He and Sherlock were the same. Sherlock could read his mind better than anyone. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and slipped of his briefs while John peeled of his undershirt and stripped off his boxers. He stared at Sherlock nude—the track marks that trailed his veins… the scars from the scratches that were self-inflicted…the prominent ribs of the malnourished. These were the things that were different about Sherlock. They told the story of his life without John. The little things that were the same—the freckles on his neck and his chest were still in the exact same spot. The way his neck was always thick and firm. And of course his eyes. His glass eyes shining like precious gems whenever they were directed towards John.

Sherlock took a moment to survey John. His tanned face and his sun-bleached hair were different. His shoulders and the back of his neck had developed freckles after what appeared to be sunburn of some sort. The nasty, ugly scar that was still stitched together on his left shoulder, just above his heart… Sherlock traced the outline of this with gentle fingers. Sherlock saw John's leg. One leg had clearly suffered major burns, the skin a pinker, lighter shade than it should be. Sherlock kissed his left calf softly. He met John's tear filled eyes again, and cupped his face. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and they kissed. They connected their soul and body; they connected their minds through their lips. Backing away, John curled himself into Sherlock's arms, a nose-length away from Sherlock's mouth. He smiled before ducking and curling himself into Sherlock's embrace.

They needed to talk. They needed to talk about so many things—Moriarty and how everything had happened. They needed to talk about next moves and revenge, but they could talk about that tomorrow. Revenge was a hateful emotion and there was nothing but love between them in this moment. In this moment where they fell asleep nude under the unfamiliar covers in an unfamiliar room feeling more at home than they had ever felt in six years.

* * *

><p>Waking up was lovely. John woke up feeling content, his back pressing against Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's arm draped lazily over him. Sherlock was still sleeping when he woke, and John could see the inside of Sherlock's forearm. He stroked it sadly, his fingers tracing the track marks.<p>

"Good morning…" Sherlock's deep voice grumbled in his ear. John smiled serenely. "I see you've found out about my little habit."

John turned to face Sherlock.

"I knew about it. My mum kept me sort of… up to date on it. She told me that you were using and that a letter from me would cheer you up. She told me that you were passed out in an alleyway. She told me that you overdosed and that you were sent to a rehabilitation center in America." Sherlock couldn't meet John's eyes. "You overdosed. How could you overdose?"

"It wasn't me, it was Moriarty." Sherlock said, looking up finally. "He… he was there. He said that he was looking over you- he said that you were happier in the Army and…" Sherlock swallowed. "He was the one who made me overdose."

"Did he inject you?" John asked.

"N…no."

"Well what did he do?"

"I was… I hadn't had a hit in a few days because I'd been wrapped up in a case. And I came home and Mycroft had gotten rid of all of my drugs. I was furious so… I went to Anderson's-"

"That fucking wanker." John growled.

"John…" Sherlock sighed. "_I _went to _him._ When I first went, he asked me where you were and what you thought about all of this. It's not his doing." Sherlock said. "Anyway, I get to Anderson's house and… this man is standing there in this nice suit with these demon eyes…" John stiffened. Moriarty. "And he was telling me all these terrible, terrible things- And he pulled out this syringe that was filled and I didn't think twice because by that point I was so far gone. I just shot up. And he pulled out his mobile and called for an ambulance. He told me that I overdosed. I… it was too much for Mycroft and he sent me away."

"I thought you were still gone when I came back. I was thinking about all the ways I could get to you." John said. "I really wasn't expecting you to be at the station."

"I wasn't expecting you to leave with me." Sherlock said. "Pleasant surprise. Now, how was the Army, really?"

John sighed and looked down at his hand. "I was sort of enjoying it in the past year. I mean… I was learning an awful lot, but it was incredibly hard, you know. I had to shut off all my emotions and just… sort of… focus on the problem at hand. Towards the end it became easier to smile, but not easier to mean it."

"Do you ever want to go back?"

"I never want you out of my sight." John said seriously. "I sort of enjoyed the structure of the military but being away from you for such a long period of time was impossible. I couldn't do it again, even if I get over this limp." Sherlock let out a breath of air. "Were you honestly worried about that?" John said, shocked. "Sherlock, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be."

"Good." Sherlock said, steadily. "The feeling is mutual."

Mrs. Watson pulled her ear from the door and smiled brilliantly back at Irene who was sprawled out across the couch.

"They are so adorable, those two, when they think that no one can hear them."

"How are they when people can see them?" Irene asked, leaning forward.

"They're not romantic all." She said, shuffling her way to the small kitchen. "They're a bit like two people who… it's difficult to explain, you'll just have to experience it." She smiled at Irene. "Poo, we don't have any food." She looked in the fridge and there was nothing but an empty egg carton and a pizza box. "Mycroft's been keeping me here for a while, I guess he was worried for my safety."  
>"Well that sure is nice of him."<br>"Yeah." She pulled her coat off the hanger and looked to Irene. "I'm going to pick up some food for you all. Will you be able to manage?"

"Sure." Irene shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"Good, dear." She said fondly. "Alright. I'll be back soon." The door to the hotel room shut and Irene sat in the living room and could hear the deep mumblings of Sherlock to his lover.

Irene just watched the television until Sherlock and John emerged, disheveled and wearing nothing but their underwear, holding hands and a change of clothes each.

"Oh. Irene." Sherlock said.

"Still here." She said flippantly, glancing at them. "I see you two got a nice shag in." Irene smiled at her usage of the word 'shag'.

"We didn't." John said, blushing.

"I know. I was just teasing you." She said. "Your mom went out to get food."

"Good." John said. "I'm starving."

"Well we're going to shower." Sherlock said.

"Together? I always thought you were frightened of nudity, Sherlock."

"I've never been afraid of nudity, I'm just not aroused by it." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's rarely about sex, to be honest." John said to her. "And I'd like to take a shower." Sherlock pulled John by the hand and lead him to the bathroom.

When they came out of the bathroom, toweling off, they were still holding hands. Irene laughed at this.

"How did you get your shirts on, holding hands like that?" She asked.

"What?" John frowned. He looked down at Sherlock's hand that he was holding. "Oh…" Sherlock shrugged.

"I guess we're just subconsciously touching at all times." Sherlock replied. "John is left handed and I'm right handed so we're holding each other's non-dominant hand."

"It makes you two seem like… a unit." Irene said, sitting up, staring at them. "Like one is an extension of the other."

"Yeah, that seems about right." John said. "And if I stop touching him for too long, I have major anxiety that he's going to disappear."

"What if you lost sight of him?" Irene suggested. John closed his eyes and turned his head. "Not just now, please. I don't want to think about that just now." The flashing of the television caught their attention as a headline blared,

_Seventeen die in a massive fire._ Sherlock reached over Irene for the remote and turned the volume up.

"The fire that started at approximately 4 this morning in Newport ravaged this abandoned warehouse. Seventeen people were seemingly bound, tortured, and doused with gasoline. The arsonist has disappeared but police are investigating."

John's stomach dropped. Moriarty. Sherlock's hand tightened around John's.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John frowned.

"Yes. Certainly I am." John cocked his head. "Why wouldn't I be alright?"

"I… you would usually be afraid at this point." Sherlock said. "You hated the chase whenever I pulled you along."

"Times are different now." John said steadily. He was so firm that Sherlock felt himself soften around John. "This is personal."

"It is."

"Then we'll get him."

"I've figured it out." Irene interjected. "Sherlock. I've figured it out." Sherlock gave a bit of a start and looked towards Irene.

"Figured out what?" Sherlock asked.

"What sort of lover you are." She murmured. She looked from Sherlock to John with such sad eyes. "I didn't think it was possible."

"What? What are you talking about?" John frowned.

"Irene is trying to guess what sort of lover I am. She thought maybe I was a dominating lover. Or a clingy one. She never really got it right, and I couldn't answer her. I couldn't even tell her what sort of lover you are."

John's eyebrows raised, and then he frowned. "I… I don't know. You're not really… anything." John said.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you." Irene murmured. "You're not a type. You're… you're a true lover." Irene frowned. "It's… beautiful, but…" Irene swallowed, licking her lips. "I'm jealous."

Sherlock and John looked at each other and then looked back to Irene.  
>"Seeing you two together… it's like nothing I've ever seen before. The subtlety in your actions are incredibly… I can't explain it." She laughed. "Your mother was right."<p>

John looked to Sherlock. John shrugged. Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Do you see!" She exclaimed, pointing. "Do you see what you're doing?"

"No." They replied at the same time.

"You two are so in sync with the other that you're hardly even two people anymore. You're this one… super being." Irene sighed. I'm going to have a shower." She stood up. "You two stay out here and love each other while I'm gone."

"A… alright." John said, perplexed. They had never really gotten such descriptions before. Mrs. Watson used to give them poignant looks. John just now realized that she was trying to tell John everything that Irene had just said. Irene had secluded herself in the bathroom and Sherlock looked to John.

"You do know that Moriarty has just revealed his position in Wales, right? You do understand that that is more important, right?"

"Of course, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and leaned into Sherlock's arms, clasping both his hands. "But for now, I don't want to think about that." John was quiet for a very long time before he muttered, "Do you believe in true love?"

Sherlock squirmed. Conversations about his emotions really aggravated him. He needed and loved John, and that was all he was certain of.

"Well that depends on your personal definition." Sherlock muttered, picking at his fingers absently.

"That you were born to complete someone else. That you were waiting all your life to meet that one person. And only so many people are able to do that." John murmured.

"No." Sherlock replied. John licked his lips and tried to hide his disappointment. "I don't believe in luck or coincidence and I don't believe in destiny. I wouldn't believe in love if I hadn't experienced it firsthand and so powerfully. So I don't believe in true love, John, I'm sorry if that upsets you."

"Yeah." John shrugged. "I don't know what I was expecting from you."

"At least I can be honest with you."

"Sometimes you are far too honest with me."

"I do believe, however, that there is no one in this world I could love like I love you."

"You know what's funny?" John said, tracing circles on Sherlock's hand. "You never said 'I love you' before Moriarty."

"I never needed to."

"You don't need to anymore."

"I sort of do." There was another long silence in which Sherlock stared at the television as he absentmindedly swirled his fingers in John's hair lovingly. John was drifting gently into sleep as Sherlock whispered again, "I love you."

* * *

><p>"I can feel it." Sherlock whispered that night. The difference between this night and yesterday night was that Sherlock and John were both completely clothed. "What's wrong, why are you upset."<p>

"It's nothing, Sherlock, go back to sleep." John muffled into his pillow.

"Don't keep things from me, John." Sherlock said. John turned to face Sherlock.

"You'll think it's silly." John said quietly. Sherlock pursed his lips and glared at John. John gave in. "It's just… those seventeen people." John said. "I tried… I tried to employ all of my military sense of mind and think of it as a tactical play but… I can't, Sherlock I can't…" Sherlock didn't know what to say. He didn't know that John was still thinking about the news report earlier that day. "All of those people… they all died because I'm alive. Because I survived, they all died."

"Do you regret survival?"

"No."

"Then what is the problem?"

John sighed pointedly. "Those people? Those people died because of me! I am responsible for their deaths and their families don't even know it! They don't know why their son or their husband or their sister died! They don't know that they grieve because one army doctor had the right friends who were clever enough to be out of Moriarty's sight! They didn't know and they'll never know, Sherlock."

Sherlock was shocked at John's emotion. "Well… there was nothing we could've done to save them. They helped us, as I said before."

"It still doesn't stop the fact that they've died."

"You don't have to feel guilty for them."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't, John. I don't understand why you do."

"And you may never understand why I do, and that's alright to me because that's who you are, Sherlock. I just… I feel so guilty even though it's not my fault."

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at John's sad face.

"I guess I've been keeping my emotions back while in the Army and I needed to feel something." John rubbed his nose. "Emotions are stupid."

"No they're not," Sherlock replied. "Emotions are a staple in humanity. This guilt that you're feeling is natural, even if it's irrational."

John paused before smiling softly. "That's something I never thought I'd hear you say."

Sherlock shrugged. He laced his fingers through John's and slid himself on top of John, kissing him softly.

"There are several things on my mind that aren't usually there."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you propositioning me?" John smiled seductively. Sherlock shifted his hips against John's and John gasped. His mind was whirling. He hadn't had any sexual encounters or even many sexual feelings while in the Army. Now, with Sherlock willing and able on top of him, John threw his head back and pressed his hips into Sherlock. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John's neck. They were about to feast upon each other.

They were lost in each other. Their minds blurred at the same pace. Together they moved in rhythm, their clothes stripped, their breathing labored, their hearts beating as one. Faster and faster they continued—more passionately than they had ever been before. Sherlock had never been able to sustain this long, Sherlock had never shown this much sexual desire. John drank in every inch of Sherlock. They coaxed cries from each other, clutching and grabbing and kissing and licking—they memorized each other's reactions. John explored Sherlock's body and found a point that drew out long, desperate moans from Sherlock. John whimpered at the noise and continued on his quest around the sensitive parts of Sherlock's body, tracing his fingers and creating a rhythm with his hands.

Sherlock allowed himself completely at the mercy of John's touch, not censoring himself, not hesitating before crying out in pleasure. They interlaced fingers and kissed lips. They rubbed and rolled and loved until their bodies were spent and tired.

They fell asleep nude again. Tangled up and exhausted under the covers. John kissed Sherlock's hair as Sherlock drifted into sleep first, never letting go of John's hand. John didn't know how many more times he would be able to feel totally and wholly complete before he lost his identity to Sherlock. He didn't know if he would mind by then. As John buried his nose into Sherlock's hair breathing in the thick scent of Sherlock he was certain that there was no way he could mind.

* * *

><p><strong>I just wanted to post this quickly~<strong>

**Also, to all the people who asked if they could translate this into other languages, just message me with the link afterwards, I really am flattered by that, really!**

**review, please~**


	42. Chapter 42

Jim tossed the chair. He flipped the table, sending papers flying everywhere. He was shrieking with rage. People stood outside of the room, staring in at Jim, terrified. Someone had already sent for Moran. No one else would dare try and calm him down. Sebastian walked in the room in loose pajama bottoms, topless.

"Jim, what is going on?" Sebastian yawned. "You've got half a dozen people banging down my door."

"That plane." Jim was shaking. "That plane was _today_. Sherlock is back with the doctor." He screamed one more time, punching a fantastic hole in the wall. Sebastian's eyebrows rose.

"I need to kill something." Moriarty hissed, breathing labored. "I need to kill someone, Seb."

"Well you addressed me by my name so I hope that it isn't me."

"Of course it's not you." Jim hissed. "Go and get me some of those people who woke you up, then. We can tie them up—" Jim's eyes glinted. "We can tie them up and pull out their toenails, slash their stomachs with their own teeth—"

"Jim, do you hear yourself? That may be the worst idea—"

"I need to kill something!" He bellowed. "That Ice Man sneaking that little idiot into the country to his brother." Jim loosened his tie and threw it to the ground.

"I'm not saying you can't kill something." Sebastian reasoned. "I'm just saying you can't do it here."

"Why?"

"We won't be able to leave fast enough, that's why. There are too many important things in this building that would take a long time to move." Sebastian said. "If you want to get out a notebook and write down all of the fantastic ways you want to torture and maim, you can do that. And while you're writing we can take a train into… Wales or somewhere." Sebastian said. "If you can wait, they'll have a large area of possible places to search. If you kill right here, right now, out of emotion, then they'll have our exact location. You go to Wales, kill as many people as you want and then we'll move out, of course." He rolled his eyes. "Come on now, I'm beauty- you're brains—this partnership is backwards right now."

"Can't I just… Can't I just kill one person—"

"No." Sebastian said firmly. There was a deadly pause before Jim finally grinned, his eyes flashing.

"I like it when you take charge." He cooed. "Alright. As long as you assist me, I'll wait." Jim said, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw. He straightened his suit, gave one last fleeting glance towards Sebastian. "Come now, I'm a bomb under pressure. I need to get this done very soon."

"I recall you saying something similar two nights ago." Sebastian chuckled. Jim grinned brilliantly. "Let's just catch the train, you moron."

* * *

><p>Jim almost killed the cab driver. He almost killed the passengers on the train. None of them would've been able to recall him if he did. Taking a train at two in the morning was good if you wanted to hide in plain sight. People were always so focused on looking in on themselves that they didn't look around. He and Sebastian did bully a couple people out of a compartment. Jim had almost gotten carried away with it, his lower jaw jutting out, looking menacingly down at the people. Seb had to calm him down a bit.<p>

"I just… I can't believe Mycroft Holmes was the one who tricked me." He hissed while they finally got situated in their own private booth.

"Well you _are _a bit obsessed with his brother." Sebastian said with a slight edge in his tone. "A blind man could see how much you want him."

"Jealous are we, Seb?" Jim's face was in a neat smirk. "Jealous of Sherlock Holmes?" He leaned towards Sebastian.

"You pay too much attention to him." Sebastian said hotly.

"I'm paying attention to you now."

"You know what I mean." Sebastian said, looking at him. "He'll be your downfall."

"Are you telling me that I'll lose to Sherlock?" he said, getting that dangerous look in his eyes again.

"No. By accident and your stupid interest in him, he will worm his way in. Not because he's more cunning than you are. No one is more cunning than you. It'll be because you accidentally let him in." Sebastian growled. "And I won't even be able to say 'I told you so' because you'll be dead."

Jim stared at Sebastian for the longest time. Sebastian had absolutely no clue which way he was going to go. Jim loved extremes and he was feeling particularly homicidal, so Sebastian braced himself for a punch or a slash of a blade. He expected fingernails or a pressure point. He got something much worse.

Jim closed the distance between himself and Sebastian and leapt on top of him. He pressed him roughly against the back of the train.

"I love it when you're jealous…" Jim whispered. He was biting, licking and rubbing every part of Sebastian. He giggled and dove in for an even rougher kiss, gnawing on Sebastian's lips and face, trying to coax blood from it. Sebastian knew about Jim's desires and submitted to them. Partly because he wanted to live, mostly because he absolutely loved it when Jim hurt him. He pushed back at Jim because Jim loved a challenge. He loved to dominate and to rule—he loved to command and defeat, but he hated it when it was easy. So Sebastian would always try and force himself on top of Jim, but Jim would always undermine Sebastian and have him pinned to the ground.

A dribble of blood ran down the side of Seb's face. Jim had cut Sebastian's forehead with his fingernails.

"Do you like that, then?" Jim's voice was soft and devilish. "Sex and blood… what's the point in pleasure if there is no pain?" He whispered, licking it up and kissing Sebastian's cut forehead. The copper and salt on Jim's tongue always sent a shiver down his spine. Jim faced Sebastian for a hot second, grinning and staring into his face. He looked perfectly insane. His hair was sticking every which way, his eyes were wide and sinister, the blood in his cracks teeth was enough to make a grown man like Sebastian cry. He didn't believe in beauty, but he imagined that this maniacal man was as close as he could ever get. They tore back into each other. They ripped clothes and scratched flesh. They fucked like two wolves fought. And they loved every second of it.

* * *

><p>It was against Sebastian's desires to wipe his blood off of Jim, but they had to be quite unremarkable when they went out into the platform. But to catch a train at two in the morning and exit it covered in blood would draw some form of attention to themselves. So Jim cleaned himself up and pulled out another set of clothes for either of them. He always anticipated a new set of clothes. The outfits they had worn were shredded and torn.<p>

"Do you still want to kill or have you fucked out all of your anger?" Sebastian said as he changed into his spare clothes and bandaged his facial cuts.

"Of course I still want to kill. I just have a better idea of how I'm going to do it." He said smoothly. "They're expecting this—or at least Mycroft is."

"Which is why I had you leave before you killed someone and did exactly what Mycroft wanted you to." Sebastian said, flattening his shirt against his chest.

"Yes, yes… I get that." Jim brushed him off. "But I was just thinking about the show that I'm going to put on. For the final bit, you know? I know there's got to be something, right?"

"They're all getting too close."

"I know." Jim turned to Sebastian, his eyes deadly serious. Sebastian knew to shut up. "And I will have my way out. I'm not going to let them get to me." Jim thought it over for a moment and then added, "Or to you."

"Don't guarantee anything until the time comes." Sebastian said. "You know how things go."

"Oh, Shut up Seb." Jim said as the train stopped fully. They exited quietly and said nothing more.

* * *

><p>The warehouse was mostly empty, but Jim found that it was easy to lure the homeless people inside, promising food and shelter. He smirked at his own words, because he didn't know about the food, but it was certainly going to get much warmer.<p>

When they walked through the door, Sebastian shot each person in the foot, three shots, masked by the silencer. When they screamed, Jim went to each one and put a gag over their mouths.

He straightened his tie and stood in front of the bleeding, tied group. Sebastian tied their hands behind their backs while Jim spoke.

"Hello." He smiled brilliantly. "My name is Jim Moriarty, and I would like to tell you the reason that you're about to die." He spoke as though talking to children. Essentially they were children.

The panicked look in each one of their eyes was beautiful, and Jim sighed. He wanted the world to look at him like that.

"There is a man… his name is John Watson. He was supposed to die in Afghanistan. He was supposed to be shot and killed six years from now. He went and got himself injured and is now back in England. Because he lives, you all die. He is the reason you won't see the sunrise." Moriarty was grinning.

"What are you doing?" Sebastian leaned in, whispering. Jim turned to him, smiling.

"John is such an empathetic character… he'll see these deaths and feel responsible. It's a personal thing, Seb."

Sebastian smiled and took in everything about Jim. His stance, his blade, his smirk. He was so evil and Sebastian loved everything about it.

"Call me when it gets fun, okay?" Sebastian said, turning. Jim turned back at the frightened group of people kneeling on the ground before him.

"Now." He clasped his hands together. "How would you all like to know the color a human liver?"

* * *

><p>Sebastian was smoking, his arm around Jim's nude body as they rest under the covers. Coated in dried blood and bruised, they lay next to each other in a little safe house 20 minutes away from the warehouse. That night they had killed seventeen people. After the first group was done, Sebastian wanted a turn and then Jim wanted another go so they killed until they were content. They doused the entire place in gasoline and made certain that it was in full blaze by the time they snuck away, giggling madly as they went. Reaching the seemingly abandoned house, they fell to the floor and fucked immediately, ripping and tearing.<p>

Somehow afterwards, they made it to the bed, Jim exhaustedly curling up with Sebastian and Sebastian smoking one of his hand-rolled cigarettes.

"You know what I can't get out of my head?" Sebastian said angrily, flicking the butt across the room. "If we're the antithesis of Sherlock and John, then I'm… I'm the doctor."

Jim laughed loudly and shifted himself up to face Sebastian. "Don't insult yourself like that."

"But you're obviously the brains of the situation… and I'm sort of a side… thing! This is really pissing me off." Sebastian growled, reaching for another cigarette. Jim stopped him.

"You have a purpose." Jim said. "You're in incredible shot. Better than I am." Sebastian stopped and stared at Jim. He never _ever _admitted to shortcomings. He would never admit to anyone being better at something than he was. Jim continued. "So that means you're much better than John. He's hardly even a paper cut."

"Don't put down paper cuts." Sebastian laughed. "Those fuckers _hurt."_

Jim giggled insanely as he rolled over onto his back.

"Don't worry about those goodies." Jim murmured. "We'll get them soon enough. It'll be easy."

"We'll show them the color of each other's spleens." Sebastian said rolling over and kissing Jim on the forehead. Jim pressed Sebastian back down to the bed and simpered,

"We'll cut off their ring fingers and put them in their mouths." Jim smiled, kissing Sebastian.

"We'll cut out their hearts and give them to each other. So they'll really have each other's hearts." Sebastian said in the kiss. Jim giggled and dove in for more. Certainly. There was no way that Sherlock could evade him now. There was no way he could lose.

* * *

><p><strong>I just really really really <em>really <em>wanted to write more Moriarty and I had always intended Sebastian to be a character even though he wasn't one on the show**

**okay so i have to go ya'll are lucky that I can post it right now because of my recent internet lackage**

** okay review please~**


	43. Chapter 43

Sherlock and John had not let go of each other's hands for a week now, and it was starting to become a problem. It really came to light one day Mrs. Watson had pulled at John's hand to show him something in another room and John's hand slipped from Sherlock's. He started hyperventilating and pulling against his mother. When he lost sight of Sherlock he started shrieking madly against his mother's grip and struggling to get back to the sleeping Sherlock. Sherlock had woken up, sitting in bed, his eyes mad and wild, searching for John. When he came running in to the room, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. They connected again. They were like magnets that would burst through walls just to get to each other. It had crossed the line from romantic into unhealthy.

Irene had called up Rachel, and she forced the two of them to sit in front of the computer.

"John!" she said. "Oh, I've heard so much about you!" Her face was alight with happiness. Sherlock smiled softly at her.

"Hello, Rachel." Sherlock said.

"Erm… hello." John said, smiling politely.

"He is just as sweet as you described him. Irene's told me everything about you two. She's told me nearly everything. She said that it's life or death situation. I sort of figured. I always felt that there was something you were keeping from me."

"There was." Sherlock admitted. "But it's all fine now. I can catch him. I've got John."

Rachel pursed her lips and sighed.

"No… you can't."

Sherlock's face fell. "Rachel—"

"Do you know what my title is, John?" Rachel said, looking at John. John gave a bit of a start.

"You counseled Sherlock through his addiction, right?" John asked. Rachel nodded.

"And I need to help him with his second addiction." She looked at him. "And that's you. You and Sherlock are addicted to each other. You two are such strong individuals. I know you can do this."

"You're not suggesting that we split." Sherlock said angrily.

"Physically, yes." She said simply. John's hand started shaking and he shut his eyes tightly at the anxiety creeping up on him. "Do you see what you're doing there, John?" John looked up, alarmed. "You're shaking. Nervous. You don't want to be without Sherlock. Those are signs of craving." John shook his head.

"You can't be addicted to a person… that's not possible." John said, defiantly.

"Alright, then go out with your mother to get groceries. Be away from Sherlock for more than two hours. In fact, let go of his hand for two minutes."

John looked down at his hand and bit his lip. He closed his eyes and shook his head again. Rachel sighed. This truly was Sherlock's lover.

"You really are his match in every way." She murmured. "Still." She said firmly. "You both need to be able to move independently."

"Why?" Sherlock said. John's chin was shaking as he fought tears.

"This Moriarty character, he's intelligent, yes?"

"I thought you said she didn't tell you everything?" Sherlock frowned.

"I lied. Sue me." She said. "Now. He found out about your cocaine addiction and used that against you, yes?"

"He's already used John against me once."

"So then be stronger. He will use John against you again, Sherlock. How are you supposed to defeat him if you can't even let go of each other for two minutes?" John looked up at her. She was completely right. How could he even try to fight Moriarty? "You feel invincible right now, but you've never been more vulnerable."

Sherlock looked away, but John looked up at her, stiffening his jaw.

"Okay." He said firmly. He squeezed Sherlock's hand once, closed his eyes. He slipped his hand from Sherlock's grasp and lifted his hands up to show the camera. His heart was pounding. Sherlock's eyes widened as he tried to catch John's hand again. He was panicking as John evaded his grasp. John was counting down from 120, his eyes closed. He stood up and tried to evade Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock pressed his fingernails into his palm and waited. John's face was pained. He didn't know how much longer he could do it.

He reached zero and all but ran back to Sherlock, grabbing his hand and kissing him on the forehead. His breath slowed, evened out and his face was serene.

"I can do this. We need to get him." John said to Rachel, his eyes firm. She was moved, though she tried not to show it. He was exactly as Sherlock described him—the eye in the center of the storm.

"That was very good, John. That was a very good start."

"Tell us what to do next. I'll follow it." John said.

"Okay." She smiled. "Let's begin.

* * *

><p>The exercises were easy enough in theory, but they were difficult to execute. They were instructed to sit next to each other without holding hands for another two minutes, and then another, and another until they were able to do it easily. They were always close enough to reach immediately after the two minutes were up. After that, they were instructed to drag two chairs and set them up across the room. They were told to sit in these chairs for ten minutes. They failed the first two times. The first time, at three minutes, John broke into hysterical tears and ran to go hold Sherlock, Sherlock's eyes closed and his face in absolute despair. Irene Adler stepped in and started clipping Sherlock's nails as she always used to do. He was digging cuts into his palms. She went to cut John's nails too, because he was doing the same thing. The second time, Sherlock had a panic attack, Irene provided him with a bag to breathe in, but John stayed firm on his chair, if not painfully. The third time, they stared into each other's face. At about seven minutes, Sherlock and John chuckled, smiling. John's heart leapt. Maybe he could to this. They held hands at the intermission, then were told to do it again and again until they could do so comfortably. It took them nearly an hour to get it right. Irene sat crosslegged between the laptop and the pair of them. They chatted idly about random topics, mostly to stay their trembling hands.<p>

"This is exhausting." John laughed, coming back to the middle again with Sherlock, intertwining fingers. "I'm afraid to hear what comes next."

"Withdrawal is never easy. Just ask Sherlock." Rachel said. "Luckily this is purely psychological. Anyone with a strong mind can get over this. Thankfully we have two. It's not as though you have to quit each other entirely. It's just the ability to control yourselves. You have to be able to be without each other for a reasonable amount of time."

"Which is?"

"About two days." She said. John's heart dropped to his stomach. He didn't want to think about that. "But we're obviously not there yet. We've just succeeded in ten minutes. I want two hours, at least. Okay? Now." She straightened herself. "I want you to try ten minutes out of each other's sight."

And so it went. Back and forth, different exercises out of each other's sight, able to speak to each other, unable to speak to each other—by the end of the day, they had gotten up to two hours without each other. They were instructed to walk slowly when reunited. They did. Rachel told them that she was proud of them.

"John, you are everything that Sherlock told me and more. Because he doesn't reveal all." John smiled.

"Thank you very much for helping us."

"Practice on your own, now. Hold hands scarcely." She said. "And I'll see you two tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Rachel."

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

The computer shut off and Sherlock and John exhaled a breath simultaneously and found each other with their mouths. They kissed fervently and deeply before resting their foreheads together.

"This is so difficult." John murmured. "I didn't know it was bad to love so much."

"I guess it's just detrimental to our well-being. It… It is sort of unhealthy." Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and backed away from John. They stopped touching for a few moments, Sherlock just looking at John. They weren't touching. John panicked at first but then settled into it. They could do this. He laughed and wiped his face.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock replied. Irene leaned against the doorframe.

"Can I join?"

"Yeah, certainly." John said. Sherlock and John both curled up on the couch as Irene picked out a movie.

* * *

><p>It took four more days of Rachel's coaching before Sherlock and John were able to exist in a space independently from each other. It took a lot of effort—once they were able to comfortably take showers alone, Rachel told them that they should be able to be apart for each other for extended periods of time. The first time John had gone out to buy groceries with his mother both Sherlock and John had panic attacks. Sherlock had a whisper of a craving for cocaine, one which Irene was there to coax away. John fell into the lifeless corpse that he was in the Army. He had explained this all to Rachel and she had given them pointers on their anxiety. The second time, John was more in control of himself and was able to speak and laugh with his mother. Sherlock was able to pick up the case files that Mycroft had dropped by and started looking for flats in the newspaper, a duty that was later entrusted to John.<p>

The third time, John was out by himself for about four hours. He lugged in the groceries and other various items to make the hotel room a bit more homey. Mycroft had sworn to pay for this room until Sherlock could find a flat for them to move into. John's mum had gone back to their home in Bromley several weeks back. John placed the bags on the table, where Sherlock was scrolling through the "for rent" ads on the internet for places in central London. John kissed Sherlock on the forehead and instructed him to put the food away. He walked away to go to the bathroom. Neither of them admitted to the other how worried they had been, but it was getting easier, there was no doubt about that.

"I think we can do it now." John announced happily to Rachel. "I think we're able to be without each other for a while."

"Yeah, you should've seen it." Irene said, crossing her arms. "Sherlock didn't watch a movie because he didn't want to see it, so John and I sat on the couch together alone. Sherlock was in his bedroom and on the computer the entire time." "Wow." Rachel said. "That's wonderful!" John and Sherlock smiled, obviously pleased with themselves.

"You do understand that we have valid reasons for worrying, right?" John said.

"Of course I do." Rachel replied, flippantly. "You were forced away, forced to hurt the only man you've ever loved in order to ensure his life. Sherlock staying away from cases was his attempt to rescue your life. You both have such valid reasons that it's healthy to have some amount of anxiety. But the level that it was at four days ago was incredibly too high. Unchecked for too long, you two may have needed medicating." Rachel said seriously. John's eyebrows raised. "And trust me, that isn't preferential."

"Thanks for getting to us in time."

"Don't thank me, thank Irene. She was the one who brought it to my attention." John turned around to Irene who smiled and shrugged.

"I was just worried about you. You two need to be focusing on something else besides each other all the time."

"Thank you." Sherlock said seriously. Irene reeled a bit at that one, shocked. "For everything."

"You're welcome…" Irene replied.

"Well I've got addicts to attend to." Rachel said, clasping her hands together. "I hope to see you again sometime."

Sherlock smiled. "I'll be certain of it."

The call ended and both John and Sherlock's smiles faded from their faces. They dropped each other's hand as they looked into the opposite's face. John knew what Sherlock was thinking and he agreed wholeheartedly.

_I love you more than anything, but we've wasted too much time on each other. _

_We need to get Moriarty._

_We need to get him __**now**__._

* * *

><p><strong>aw yeah things pick up after this <strong>

**Last chapter, though I don't think a lot of people liked it, was necessary. Their personalities come into play later on**

**okay so here's a chapter! Um, Sherlock and John have those addictive personalities, and I thought it could pass the point of 'okay' so**

**this is that this is that chapter**

**cool!**

**review please!**


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock's brain spun into overdrive in the next few weeks. He hadn't realized how much he had been distracted by John's constant presence. He sat in the hotel room kitchen, cases spread out, connecting certain pieces to others. He had three laptops up, two behind him one in front for quick access. He searched crimes internationally. He would call up Mycroft and tell him what he should do to head off Moriarty, just before he struck again. He would go on-site to cases that seemed irrelevant, take notes, gather data. No one could follow Sherlock's train of thought—not even Mycroft. Eventually, Mycroft stopped asking so many questions and just followed Sherlock's orders. Chess, Sherlock realized. It was like a game of chess.

He had a pad of paper beside him where he chronologically recorded all of the cases that he'd suspected of Moriarty. His mind had never been clearer. Even the drug didn't make his mind run at this level. John would stop him at nine every night and force him to eat. Sherlock would protest but end up eating anyway, pouting on the couch until he was finished digesting. By then it was usually too late and John forced him to come to bed. He usually had to speak to Sherlock to slow his mind from its rapid firing. He was always irritable whenever John had to relax him. But it was only ever John who was able to grab a hold of Sherlock stop his mind from spinning out of control. John had to reason with Sherlock to get him to sleep every night. John couldn't fall asleep until Sherlock did. If anything at all, Sherlock would fall asleep just to relieve the bags that were forming under John's weary eyes.

One night about two months after their reunion, John woke up in the middle of the night. Sherlock was bent over a blueprint of some sort, yellow lamplight spilling around his shirtless torso. He was murmuring to himself, alternating between writing on a sheet of paper and typing a message to someone on the laptop.

"Sherlock…" John groaned, rubbing his face. "Sherlock come to bed."

"Shut up." he replied sharply. John sighed and sat up on his elbows, trying to open his eyes. He was frantically writing and typing when he stood quickly, bounding across the room to retrieve his mobile.

"Sherlock…" John sighed. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock waited impatiently on the phone until Mycroft finally picked up.

"I've found it." Sherlock said quickly. "I've found it, Mycroft."

"Found what…?"

"I know where he's going to be. I know how we can corner him. I know the series of information centers he has. I know it, Mycroft, I could go there right now if I had the transportation."

"Slow down." Mycroft grumbled. "Repeat yourself, please."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I can reach him. I can get to him, Mycroft I can. I can see the pattern. I'm going to mail you a list of locations and you need to organize people to go in and take them, exactly as I say."

"Sherlock, this is risky. This is more than just thwarting a plan of his. You're suggesting we work in the offensive."

"I've got it under control. I know what he thinks I'll do. I know how his mind works, Mycroft, trust me."

There was a long pause where Mycroft thought it over. "Please stop to consider all possibilities, Sherlock. Then mail me in the morning."

"Yes." Sherlock said quickly. He hung up and flew back to the chair in the bedroom.

"Sherlock…" John murmured, just remembering.

"Not now." He waved John off, distracted.

"Sherlock, when Moriarty threatened me that night, he said that he had a man." John said. Sherlock hesitated and looked towards John. "He said that he was an expert marksman and that he was a fantastic shot and he was just talking about this one guy." Sherlock turned to John, drinking in this piece of knowledge. "That doesn't seem very much like Moriarty, does it? He wouldn't compliment the shooter; he should just make reference that there is one. It doesn't seem very like him, in retrospect."

Sherlock paused for a very long time; John could see his mind whirling again. Sherlock turned to check his history on the computer in front of him.

"There's nothing… nothing about an accomplice. He always seems to be alone."

"I could be wrong. He could just be complimenting a gunner that he likes."

"No, he doesn't _do _that. He feels the need to own someone, and he likes to brag about his toys. He's attached to this man in some way." Sherlock said, shifting through his papers.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes of _course _it matters!" Sherlock yelled. "He bases his actions off of his own mind! If he were singular, alone, he would behave in a certain way, but he allowed someone else to take room in his head they could influence him! It's a factor that I didn't anticipate and I can't believe I overlooked it."

"Calm down-"

"I can NOT CALM DOWN!" He bellowed and John hardened his jaw. "Don't you see? It's a race to the end- a match of wits to the death. We're not out of it yet. We're still fighting. The two first moves are always the most crucial, they set the score for the entire game. He made his by taking you; I made mine by getting you back. And I am not letting him take you again."

John's expression softened as understanding dawned on him. He was working himself to death to ensure John's life. He was still worried for John.

"He's not going to take me again-"

"No, he won't take you now." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "He'll kill you. He's been trying hard to kill you. You don't know how hard he's tried to kill you. He won't kill me, though. Even when he has the opportunity. I suppose he doesn't seem that it's fair. Killing you would derail me completely and I think that's what he wants. He doesn't want to kill me-he wants to win." John sighed and Sherlock looked to him.

"So… this gunner is supposed to be… like me in this situation, yes?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Not the brains, but possibly a staple."

"Well Moriarty wouldn't ever fall in love. The closest thing I think he's capable of is sexual desire. And I suppose that he could have this bloke in a cage somewhere but… I think if the man didn't return the sentiment then Moriarty would've killed him."

Sherlock was impressed. "Have you been thinking about this?"

"While you've been going over the tactical aspects of Moriarty, I've been trying to take him apart as a person. You and he are incredibly similar, you know?"

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. John continued.

"He seems the type to like an audience, so… whoever this man is… he's probably in love with Moriarty, aware that Moriarty can't even feel love, but loyal to him all the same."

Sherlock stared at John for a split second before leaning in and kissing him. "You are amazing, you are brilliant." His voice rumbled around John. John felt a blush creep up his neck and rest on his cheeks and ears. "That is incredibly helpful." Sherlock backed up and turned back to his work. John tucked his knees up to his chest and smiled into his crossed arms. Sherlock took no notice of John and dove headlong into his work. This would be a very long night. In the morning, it was show time.

* * *

><p>They had seized six headquarters out of the fifteen that Sherlock had discovered. There were probably several more, but they had gained control of six of them, three of the bigger ones exploded before they could go inside and inspect the contents. Several of the documents inside were encrypted, most of them self-deleted, but some of them they were able to read. He was taking Moriarty apart, brick by brick. It would be tedious, and he didn't know if he could do this without Moriarty feeling pressured until he exploded and killed John and Sherlock before he called fair game. Sherlock knew that Moriarty still had the ability to kill Sherlock outright. But he was making his way into Moriarty's complex system of crime. It was difficult, but he was doing it.<p>

A week or so of Sherlock orchestrating raids on Moriarty's known hubs, Sherlock received a letter. It was addressed to "The Great Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock opened it gingerly, John looking on, a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Inside was a short, handwritten letter.

_My Dearest Sherlock:_

_You are the itch that I can't scratch hard enough. You are that stubborn little mouse that my claws ache to gut. Sherlock, you certainly have gotten over your addiction—and in a big way. But you are becoming far too meddlesome. You've struck your blows and I've struck mine. This game is incredibly fun. _

_I propose we meet. Properly this time. Let's gossip like old women over tea. You can tell me about your doctor and I can tell you about the seventeen throats I slit in his name. Let's end this game. We'll have ourselves an old school western stand-off. Just us two. What do you say, Sherlock? You'll know where to go. The clues are in the letter. _

_Ta,_

_Jim Moriarty_

"Is this a taunt or a summons?" John asked. Sherlock could not answer. He closed his eyes. He folded the letter and pushed it away from him.

"I'm going to the hospital. They have a good lab there." Sherlock responded.

"Well can't I come with you?"

"No."

"Sherlock, you've kept me in this damn hotel room for weeks. I haven't seen anyone but you and Irene! You know she's been sneaking off? Probably because it's so damned _boring _in this place! I haven't even been able to talk to _her_! And then you're always out at some—some crime scene or Scotland Yard or with Mycroft and I'm bored, Sherlock. I'm stuck here."

Sherlock was speechless as he searched John's face. John could feel the 'Are you an idiot?' look radiating from Sherlock's features.

"John you don't understand the level of danger you're in, do you? If you go anywhere, you may be killed as soon as the sun touches your skin. Moriarty would love to kill you, especially before our meeting."

"Then why didn't he kill me before? A couple months ago? I was going out with Milo almost every night."

"That was before these raids, John, keep up." he said irritably. "He didn't suffer when you were alive. Seeing you dead back then would only be entertainment. He didn't see me as the threat I am now. Now it would be crucial to hinder my thought in some way."

"Am I not a person, then?" John rolled his eyes. Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"Not to him. You know what I mean." Sherlock said. "Don't be overly sensitive that Moriarty doesn't see you as a full person. Everyone is an idiot to him. There are only two other people—and that is me and Sebastian Moran."

John gave a start. "Sebastian Moran?"

"The gunner." Sherlock waved off. "He technically doesn't exist, but luckily he does in Mycroft's private files. Mycroft likes to keep a physical copy of the list of people he thinks could become a threat. I described the gunner to him and he tried to locate him on the system but he's been wiped clean. Mycroft kept a physical file on Sebastian Moran that was immensely helpful. He was a sniper in the Army—Afghanistan, in fact—and he was incredible. He won all sorts of awards for bravery. He was dishonorably discharged for misconduct. Apparently he was too interested in shooting down civilians. After returning to England he disappeared, and that's when we assume he met up with Moriarty."

"How old is he?"

"He's about 30 years old, maybe older." Sherlock said. "There's only about five years difference between Moriarty and Moran. He fits the description of Moriarty's type to the T."

"I suppose he does." John muttered. "What if we're wrong?"

"You could be wrong. But I'm never wrong." Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes.

"Yes you are. But what if there is no Sebastian Moran that he's in love with? Maybe this Moran guy was killed or something."

"Then his records would say deceased. They wouldn't be missing completely." Sherlock said impatiently. He stood with the envelope in his hand. "When I come home, be ready to listen." Sherlock stared into John's eyes, concerned. "Stay safe. Especially now that he knows I've received this letter, stay here. Don't pick up the phone. Don't call anyone. Don't—please, John."

"I'll be fine."

"Swear to me."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to fall into his traps."

"Swear to me, John." Sherlock stepped toward John, his eyes burning and serious. John sighed and put a hand up.

"I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, that I will not leave this hotel room, pick up a phone or look out a window."

Sherlock smiled happily, kissed him quickly on the forehead and whisked away.

"Sorry I'm late," Molly murmured, bustling through the hospital doors, greeting Sherlock sheepishly. "I'll get you into the lab downstairs." "Thank you Molly." Traces of lipstick behind her ear. Sherlock smirked.

"What do you need done?"

"I just need to figure out what this paper is made of." Sherlock said, strolling into the laboratory. It was filled with equipment that no one ever used that Sherlock would find very helpful.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Molly asked delicately.

Sherlock settled down in a stool, pulling out utensils and chemicals and slid the paper under the microscope. As he was adjusting the lens, he responded.

"No… you can leave." He smirked. "Give Irene my best, would you?"

Molly blushed to her roots, biting her lip before turning quickly on her heel and leaving the laboratory.

The paper had traces of pollen that was only found in northern England. The ink of the pen was specialized ink, but the company had not been in production for thirteen years. They had an abandoned factory in northern England that had been purchased by a wealthy anonymous benefactor. Moriarty. It was too easy. He was making this too easy.

Sherlock knew what this meant, however. This was the final sprint. These were the last moves. Both Sherlock and Moriarty were running out of pieces. This was a life or death game where forfeiting was not an option.

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><p><strong>Winding down now, it's winding down. Confrontation is just in reach. <strong>

**Do you like how I had Moriarty address the letter to "The Great Sherlock Holmes" **

**Review please~~**


	45. Chapter 45

The land was barren from overuse. The warehouses were old and in complete disrepair- paint chipping, windows blown out, the logo to the ink factory was worn and pale on the side of the tallest building. Jim stood on a building next to the tallest one. He waved enthusiastically from the top. Sherlock glared up at him. He entered the building, the musty scent of mold pressing in on him from all sides. There was a rusted spiral staircase leading to the roof, and Sherlock hesitated before clambering up the stairs.

Jim was smirking when Sherlock reached the top.

"Took your time, didn't you?" he simpered. Sherlock didn't respond. "Well. First things first, yes? Bravo! Bravo, Sherlock- truly. Having your brother sneak your little plaything back into the country? That took a lot of effort, that did. It's almost cheating."

Sherlock's anger flared.

"No. Cheating is making a move before there is even a _mention _of a game." Sherlock's voice was dangerous. "_That _is cheating. Using all of my means to retrieve an asset is not cheating- it's winning." Sherlock's chin raised and he looked down his nose at Jim. Jim regarded him silently for a moment before speaking again.

"You know what this world is like?" Jim scrunched his face up as though coming into proximity of a horrible scent. "The world is a library filled to the bursting with kiddie books. All of them. All of these simple people are either 'See Spot Run' or 'Jack and Jill run up a hill' or more likely 'Nine to five around the hive, Busy Bee just stay alive'." he shook his head and sighed, licking his teeth. He looked back up at Sherlock with wide, intense eyes that sought to undo Sherlock, piece by piece. Sherlock couldn't tell yet if he should feel flattered or threatened. "But you, Sherlock." he whispered. "In you strut- half 'War and Peace' half 'Communist Manifesto." He giggled. "I can't explain to you how refreshing you are. You are complex, interesting. You are me." he looked up and laughed. "How can you _stand _it? How do you not feel the same way? How in the hell could you care about a 'Dick and Jane' like that doctor you lug around?"

"John is more than an ordinary person to me. He's not another children's book-"

Jim rolled his eyes "A pop- up then." He smirked at Sherlock. "Point being, you intrigue me, Sherlock, truly. You fascinate me. But you've become too much of a hassle. Far too much. I can't begin to describe how much it pains me to rid of the only other interesting human in the world, but it needs to be done. You are the bug underneath my boot, Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you saying that you're going to kill me?" Sherlock asked.

"I _am _going to kill you." He smiled. "I'm trying to reason with you, my dear. This little notion you have of thinking that you can kill me is almost laughable. I've transcended. I'm an idea, now. Meaning…you can kill me if you'd like, but the organization will still continue. It doesn't matter if I die or not because the game will always continue. It won't end until _you_ die."

Sherlock stepped in threateningly and dropped his tone.

"Sure if I cut off the head, the legs will keep twitching, but its death is inevitable."

Jim covered up his flicker of doubt by raising his eyebrows.

"Is that a metaphor, Sherlock?" Jim teased him. "I didn't know you to be a poet. Did you have your doctor write that for you?" A slight twitch of anger betrayed Sherlock's smooth expression. "Where is he now? I'd love to have a chat."

"He didn't write that, and he's not here." Sherlock said. "This is you and me right now."

"Finally we can have our private time, can't we?" Jim murmured.

"I knew it." Sherlock said. Jim stopped abruptly.

"Knew what?"

"Dull."

"What?"

"You." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "It was too easy, in the end. Catching you was almost too easy. I wouldn't have believed it myself if John hadn't have given me the idea. There was a recognizable pattern with every single one of your cases. Very, _very _subtle. It was something that only I would've been able to pick up. It made me start to wonder if you were doing it on purpose. The pattern of money handling for each warehouse—it was something that I would've only been able to pick up at my most astute mental capacity. You were calling out to _me. _The mentally alert Sherlock Holmes. But for what reason? Why else have a pattern?" Sherlock leaned in close to Jim. "You're just a slave to your subconscious sexual desire, aren't you Mr. Moriarty?"

Jim whipped around angrily, his face blazing with rage that lay just beneath the surface of his skin.

"You weren't supposed to pick up on the money."

"But it was something that _you_ would've picked up on." Sherlock said. "If you looked hard enough. You were calling out to me. Love toes the line of obsession, does it not? You crossed that line and signed your own death warrant." Sherlock said. "And now I'm taking you apart. Piece. By Piece."

"I could destroy you!" Jim shrieked. "I could rip you to shreds with a single murder! I'd kneel you in front of me as I'd torture your beloved idiot and you would tear yourself apart before I could even have a chance to get to you."

"It's a good thing that _you_ don't have one of those, isn't it?" Sherlock said, his eyes boring holes into Jim. Sherlock's face twitched up into a smirk. Jim's eyes flashed with fear as he whipped out his cellphone and pressed a button. Nothing happened. Jim went positively insane as he barreled towards Sherlock.

"_What did you do to him?_" He shrieked madly.

"Frightened for your pop-up book?" Sherlock grinned. Moriarty was seconds away from pushing Sherlock over the edge of the tall building. His face clearly showed that he wanted to. His voice turned deep and menacing.

"I swear to God, if you harm him—"

"What will you do?" John walked up the stairs, gun raised. Moriarty's eyes flickered to John and he backed away from Sherlock as he tried to contain his anger. John took very slow steps towards Moriarty, his hand gripped firmly around the gun. Moriarty closed his eyes as he forcibly calmed himself. After a while, a smile curled the corners of his face.

"Hello, doctor." He looked up at John. "Did you enjoy my last all expense-paid vacation?"

"I hated every minute of it. You know that, don't you? But the problem with sending me away, Jim, is that I've become a trained killer. And you've lit a fire in my stomach that can't be quenched with anything but your blood."

Jim brought his hands together in a mock applause.

"That's a beautiful sentiment, Johnny, but the idea that a little man like you could even entertain the notion of defeating me is just so laughable." Jim snickered. "Only Sherlock would be able to do that. Maybe." He completely blew John off and looked back at Sherlock. "You've got reinforcements, don't you?"

"Yes, I certainly do."

"I thought that it was just supposed to be the two of us." Moriarty muttered.

"It was. You didn't abide by that. I didn't abide by that in a big way." Sherlock shrugged. "Bending the rules. Check." Jim's eyes hungered for Sherlock as he stepped in closely, his hot breath on Sherlock's face.

"You're starting to look like me." He breathed, his eyes dancing. "How badly do you want my blood?"

"Sherlock, don't—"

"I want to use your skull as a paperweight." He hissed, his teeth barred. John's stomach wriggled. Sherlock had shown a more violent nature lately, his desire to take down Moriarty frightened John. "I want to choke you with your own intestines. I want to smear your blood all over the streets of London. I want you _dead._" Sherlock's voice was dangerously low. John was shaking; his gun still fixed on Jim, but his eyes on Sherlock. He prayed for Sherlock to keep his temper, he prayed for Sherlock to hold back his instinct to reach out and grab Moriarty's throat.

Jim's eyes glazed over with desire before he retreated. He closed his eyes sadly.

"No." He shook his head. "You don't really. You're just mad that I kicked your puppy. Your homicidal feelings aren't genuine." Jim sighed and looked around at John. "I bet you're pleased, aren't you? Goodie Sherlock is still goodie." Jim's voice sounded generally disappointed. "I mean, he certainly does want to murder me, and I love that about him right now, but he wouldn't want to kill… creatively. And where's the fun in that?" He shrugged. "Ah well. 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' right?"

John laughed bitterly. "That expression does not apply to everyone."

Jim rolled his head on his shoulders.

"You two are still so hung up on the whole me-drafting-John-into-the-Army business, aren't you?" Jim smiled at John. "Let me make it up to you, doctor."

Moriarty started to slide off his jacket. Sherlock tensed and John gripped his gun tighter, still aimed fixedly at Moriarty's forehead. Sherlock stepped closer to John, away from Moriarty. Jim laid the jacket flat on the ground. He bowed to Sherlock.

"You are truly beautiful, Sherlock. This has been a lovely game. Treat Sebastian terribly. He shouldn't have been caught. Miss me in my absence. You will die by my hand, Sherlock."

"What are you doing with the jacket?" John demanded.

"It's a gift, John. To you."

"The jacket?"

"The nightmares."

Sherlock sprinted towards John just in time. The jacket exploded with enough force to knock Sherlock into John and cave the floor beneath them in tongues of fire. Three bodies fell like rag dolls into the dusty warehouse, bumping into each other and the chunks of the roof. John twisted himself so he took the fall and Sherlock landed on top of him. It took the wind out of him, but Sherlock was safe. He couldn't see to dodge debris, but he gripped Sherlock closer to him to protect his head from the falling concrete. Everything fell around them, Sherlock twisting away from falling objects as John slowly regained his sight.

Just before they could catch their breath another bomb went off just underneath them, tumbling them to the bottom level, throwing them onto the dirt floor of the structure. John landed on his right shoulder with a crunch; Sherlock was knocked painfully away from him. John screamed as he saw a large chunk of concrete aim for Sherlock. John scrambled over Sherlock to protect him, and the block hit him in the back with a disgusting cracking noise. John shrieked as the pain splintered throughout his body. Sherlock was panicking. All he could think of was 'get him out of there… he needs to be safe.' Sherlock tried to get John to stand to leave. John shook his head violently, unable to stand, his body frozen in pain and forced Sherlock back to the ground. It wasn't safe. That wasn't safe, Sherlock. John's head was still spinning and murky. All he could tell was that the sky was falling and he needed to protect Sherlock.

They needed to get out. More bombs, very close, forcing Sherlock and John to hit the wall just behind them. The building. The building was going to come down wasn't it? Sherlock was no longer trying to get John to stand up, but at he tried his hardest to force John to stop protecting him. He was already in enough pain as it was.

Another bomb. Incendiary. It caught John's shirt back alight and John covered Sherlock's hands with his own. John's hands were scorched. Sherlock wanted desperately to use his body as a shield over John's broken one, but John wouldn't move. Sherlock couldn't stand hearing John's screams and smelling John's hair burn. John suddenly went very limp as one of his screams faded away. Sherlock's heart was pounding. He quickly shifted his body to cover John's and not a moment too soon—the final bomb exploded—loud and large and billowing fire—and Sherlock felt his jacket curl up with flames and his hair ignite. He could feel the flesh on his back melt under the heat of the bomb as he clutched onto John's body protectively as they both were pressed forcefully against the wall. He tried not to think about the pain. He vomited. He tried not to think about the unbearable pain. He thought instead of what he just did for John. If John had taken the blunt of that explosion, though they were on the edge of it, he would've certainly died. Sherlock could feel the raw and burnt skin of John's back stick against the front of his shirt. They were slumped once more against the wall by the force of the blast. A few chunks of concrete hit Sherlock in the back of the head, but the building did not fall. Sherlock was so grateful for it. If the building had fallen, he knew that there was absolutely no way that he would've been able to drag both him and John out of there. The bombs had stopped. A strange ringing silence fell around him. All he could hear was the crackling of misplaced fires and the weakening pulse of John's heart.

Sherlock struggled to stay conscious for John. Lestrade was coming. He was coming soon; he had to come soon. Lestrade or Mycroft, they would certainly arrive. Sherlock fought desperately with the darkness, willing himself to stay awake until he could see Mycroft or Lestrade.

He heard some yelling. He screamed back something incoherent. He didn't know who it was—Mycroft or Lestrade or even some random man off the street who had seen the explosions. He needed to get out of here and get John to safety. He wanted to vomit again but he couldn't.

There was a bit commotion around Sherlock and John as Sherlock clutched onto John's limp form. Some man tried to take John away from him. Sherlock kicked the man and screamed at him, causing him much pain, but Mycroft's face floated into his line of sight and he knew that it was okay. He fell back and let the darkness swallow him whole.

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><p><strong>I don't know what I'm supposed to write down here anymore<strong>

**I'm just a horrible horrible person**

**review please!**


	46. Chapter 46

Flashes of bombs, the flesh-melting heat of the raging fires just behind his eyes—Sherlock. Have to keep Sherlock safe. Sickening, cracking, crushing—safe. Keep Sherlock safe. Can't keep him safe. Sherlock burning, crying, begging, _dying—_

John slowly forced himself from sleep. Nothing could be so terrifying in real life. Sherlock hung over him with concern in his eyes and burns on his face. As soon as John's eyes fluttered open, his face broke out in a brilliant grin. It was infectious, and John found himself smiling along with Sherlock, his night terror fading in his mind.

"You're okay…" he whispered. "You're alright."

"In a manner of speaking, I guess…" John tried to blink away the sleep and the fear that coupled with it. "That didn't go exactly as planned."

"I really didn't know what to expect. There really was no plan."

"What?" John frowned.

"I… I had no idea that there would be bombs, but I was certain that he would pull some sort of disappearing act."

"So you went in there with no plan?"

"The plan was to escape alive. I do say that we succeeded."

"Just barely."

"Not really." Sherlock spread his arms with slight difficulty. "Look at us. We're burnt and bruised and cut and broken, but we're not dying or dead. It's better than I could've predicted. We also have Sebastian Moran in custody."

"There has to be a catch. He's given up too much." John shook his head. Sherlock's lips pressed into a line.

"Reports of several server malfunctions in the city. Buildings in the country were heard to be alight in flames. All of it. He deleted every last bit of information that he accumulated." Sherlock said, crawling back into his own bed and sitting on top of it, looking at John. "He's completely gone."

"What about the explosions?" John tried to sit up more, but found that his hands were wrapped and raw. "There's no way he could've survived that."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, sulking.

"A body was found."

John's heart leapt. He never knew that he could feel so happy over the death of someone else.

"Then he's dead, right? It's Moriarty."

"It looks like him, but the face is scorched." Sherlock grumbled.

"So he's dead." John said forcefully. "You've won, Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me this first?"

"Because he's _not _dead." Sherlock pressed. "He's just very, very good at playing dead."

"Why would he do that?"

"He'll need to start over. From scratch. He'll need to find a way around this little blockade that he's come into contact with. Now he knows what I'm truly capable of, he won't underestimate me again."

John closed his eyes. "Immovable object, meet unstoppable force." He murmured. "So, why exactly are you burned? I distinctly remember being a fantastic fire wall."

Sherlock scowled. "If I hadn't forced myself on top of you, you would've died. You were passed out and raw and burnt. There was no way that I was letting you get hurt again." John softened.

"Thank you." John murmured. Sherlock was terrible at showing compassion, and this was certainly close enough to merit a sweet blush to rise from his cheeks. "But you are reckless sometimes." John broke the tender moment. He waved a heavily bandaged hand at Sherlock.

"You know, _these _are your fault." John shook his balled hands at Sherlock. "What you thought you were doing exposing your hands to the fire, I'll never know."

"Why did you want to protect my hands?"

"When I was in the Army, all I could think about was that melody in the music box you gave me. All I could imagine was you playing that on your violin. When _your_ hands get burnt, Sherlock, it's like burning your tongue. You need to speak through your violin and I wasn't having a stupid burn stop you."

Sherlock stared at John, his lips parting slowly.

"And you thought all of that in that split second?"

"Actually, it was mostly just 'Violin!' but yeah. Generally." John replied. Sherlock's smile was nearly a kiss, it was so sweet.

"Maybe you're not as much of an idiot as I made you out to be." John rolled his eyes dramatically. Sherlock's facial expression and words were so different.

John said in an announcer voice,

" 'Eight years after meeting him, Sherlock Holmes realizes that John Watson isn't a complete imbecile. More at 11.'" Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. He was quiet for a very long time.

"Thank you, John."

John brushed it off, though secretly he was immensely pleased. It was worth the burnt hands and battered ribs to see that look in Sherlock's eyes.

"Ah, Mr. Watson." The doctor walked in. "I'm Dr. Stevenson. I bet you've seen far too many hospitals in your time, am I right?"

John sighed and nodded. Dr. Stevenson brought John's form to his face and read from it.

"You had a concussion, some bruising of the skull, three broken ribs, a twisted knee, a dislocated shoulder and several burns on your back, arms, hands—the worst being your leg. It was burned in Afghanistan also, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, the skin was still sort of rough and it burnt easily. The burns weren't as bad as they were during your tour, so we managed to salvage much more skin. You'll really need to go to physical therapy to work that muscle again."

John groaned. As beneficial as physical therapy was, he hated every moment of it.

"To be honest, we were lucky that you didn't slip into a coma. Your concussion was pretty severe and you passed out. We were lucky that we got you when we did."

"What about Sherlock? He's in a hospital bed, how was he injured?"

"He sustained burns to the neck, face and back and he has a sprained wrist. Minor concussion. He doesn't have to go to physical therapy. He should be completely fine in a few weeks."

"How soon can we leave?" Sherlock asked.

"You're free to go, Sherlock, but John leaves in a week."

"Then that's when I'll leave. Mycroft will pay for my stay." Sherlock said firmly. Dr. Stevenson pursed his lips and shrugged.

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

"Then you're welcome to stay, Sherlock." He said tersely. He patted the bed by John's foot and left.

"We need to get out of here soon."

"Why? We can't just slow down and hang around, just for a little while?" John said, closing his eyes and stretching. He could feel the cotton bandages on his back rub against the rough sheets. He hated fire. He hated burns. They were the worst kind of injury.

"We need to visit Sebastian Moran. I want to interrogate him before he breaks out."

"How do you know he's going to break out? There's no evidence that someone else worked with Moriarty and Moriarty himself wouldn't risk his own skin even for someone like Sebastian."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "He does have another accomplice. I'm certain of it. The information that we extracted from those warehouses that we raided was worth nothing. They were past deeds; none of them were plans for the future. There was nothing there that we could stop. I was almost certain that at least one of the warehouses held information of value but _none _of them did.

"Sherlock, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that someone warned him. Someone who knew of our plans and gave him a heads-up. He switched out the actual information with useless trivia to make me think that I was getting ahead. He was certain that he couldn't hold me off anymore, he was certain that I would find out the traitor soon, so Moriarty disappeared."

"Sherlock." John said somberly, his eyes closed. "Sherlock, all those times you were gone, doing your fieldwork, I was talking to Milo. I would complain about all the things you got up to and I would let him into the room a few times to watch a movie or have a beer. I never went out with him, but he came over a couple times. I... I told him so much."

Sherlock gave John a reprimanding glare before shaking his head.

"I understand. But... why would you invite him over? Why would you risk your safety like that?"

"I didn't know- how could I know! I felt like I owed him. You didn't know me in the army, Sherlock, I was a shell of a person. I was closed off, and Milo just... he always... he seemed concerned about me..." John closed his eyes. "I always thought that it was strange that he followed me everywhere. He was paired up with me everywhere I went..." John fell silent.

"Well, it's natural to feel a connection to Milo, I don't blame you, John." Sherlock said. "Though it is entirely your fault."

John was affronted. "Hey- It's not like I went to Moriarty myself saying 'hello there Jim, Sherlock and I are plotting against you! I have a serious, rational fear of explosions, so if you could use as many explosions as possible when you meet Sherlock, that would be _swell_!' "

"You did act against my orders, you defied me."

"You're not my drill sergeant."

"I am when I'm trying to keep you alive." Sherlock growled.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock?" John raised his voice. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I thought that I could have a friend over for a beer, I'm sorry that I decided to talk to someone other than you, I'm _sorry _for trusting someone with a few minor details of my life!" John had never yelled at Sherlock so much. "I truly am sorry that I told Milo so much, but don't for a _second _blame me for all of this happening! I already have too much to deal with."

Sherlock picked at his nails and scratched as his skin quietly. He said nothing as John stewed in his anger.

"I didn't mean to accuse you." Sherlock murmured finally.

"Yes you did."

"Are you going to leave me?"

John gave a start. "What? No! No... Sherlock..." he sighed. "You just need to think about what you say. Sometimes the things you say can really hurt, alright?" Sherlock nodded once. He touched all of his fingers with his thumb before picking at his nails.

"The last time you yelled like that was over the phone."

"Don't-"

"It was just... I was just having a vivid flashback." Sherlock said.

"Please don't try and guilt me, I've already apologized about that. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"Okay."

John looked over at Sherlock. "So." He changed the subject. "You and Moriarty."

"Unstoppable force and immovable object, as your cliche so accurately depicts-"

"When an unstoppable force meets and immovable object there is certain to be an explosion. This explosion is going to touch everyone in your life." John's words were fierce. Sherlock looked up towards John. "I don't know if I can handle another burn."

"You won't have to." He replied. "I'll win. I always win, and I'll win again. I promise."

* * *

><p>A week later and John was able to walk somewhat. He would always lean on his cane rather heavily, his limp was really bad. His hands weren't as burned as he expected, though it still hurt to flex them. The palms were fine, but the backs of his hands were still scarred a bit. The knee that he had twisted was on the same leg that sustained such horrible burns. He was able to walk, but he was always reliant on his cane. Sherlock assured John that he would rid John of his limp after a few sprints in the city after criminals. Immediately from the hospital, Mycroft took them to the prison where Moran was being held. Sherlock was all too excited about this, while John couldn't find it in him to care about this gunner that had thrown in his ranks with Moriarty. In John's book, there was nothing interesting about him. Though he did want to meet his counterpart.<p>

The prison was clean, though dark, and it was orderly, though sinister. Limping through the halls, John could feel every eye on Sherlock, Mycroft, and him. Mycroft led the two into a back room for interrogation and closed the door behind them. There sat Sebastian Moran, leaning in his chair, looking disheveled but proud.

"There you are, doctor. I've had my eye on you." He grinned. "It's underwhelming, I assure you."

"You know that he's dead, right?" Sherlock said. "Your master."  
>"He wasn't my master, he was my friend." Sebastian spat. "And he isn't dead. He can't be."<p>

"A body was found." John replied. "DNA checks out. Fingerprints check out. It's him, Moran, and you've got nothing else to live for."  
>"Oh, shut up you idiot." Sebastian snapped. "All I can here is this vague grumbling noise coming from your uneducated mouth."<p>

"You heard what I said." John said simply. "It doesn't matter what you think of me because my friend is alive, and yours is dead. We can see who's the true winner in this situation, can't we?"

"Contain your pet." He addressed Sherlock. "It looks like it wants to bite something."

"You were nothing but a pet too." Sherlock said. "He only believed in two people. Me and himself." Sebastian's jaw tightened. Sherlock noticed this and smiled. "Oh... so you know this already? You know that no matter how much you dedicate yourself to him, he will always view you as a lesser being. Much lesser." Sebastian didn't respond. Sherlock continued. "You know what he said, just before he died? He said, 'Treat Sebastian terribly. He shouldn't have been caught.' Doesn't that sound like an owner training his pet?" Sherlock's voice was falsely amused.

"I gave him everything. My identity. My body. My life." He glared at Sherlock. "What makes you more important than me? Hmm? Why is it that you get the shrines and I'm left to rot in prison?"

"Because I'm clever and you're not. Because you're ordinary and I'm extraordinary. Your mistake is thinking that he could care about someone like you in the first place." Sherlock said. "I wasn't supposed to find out about you. Now that I have, he thinks that I'll think that I'll be able to use you as a bargaining chip. He hates having a weakness. He hates things like you." Sherlock circled. "So he won't rise to the bait. He'll encourage your torture so that it'll seem that he truly doesn't care about your wellbeing. Maybe he does. He probably doesn't."

"You shut your fucking mouth!" Sebastian stood, his wrist still cuffed to the table. "You don't know _shit _about him! You met him twice and one of those times you were coked out of your mind! I know him! I know him and he gives a fuck about me, alright? He cares about me!"

Sherlock smiled and it maddened Seb to near insanity. "If he really cared about you, if you had absolutely no doubt in your mind that he cared about you then you wouldn't be standing trying to defend yourself against my accusations. You would just accept me as wrong." Sebastian was breathing through his nose, his chest rising and falling violently. "He kept you around for the sex. Deep down, you knew that. Didn't you?"

Sebastian screamed and lunged toward Sherlock, his wrist bruising. The table tilted a bit against the metal screws holding it down to the floor.

"I'm going to slit your throat and watch you bleed out slowly you stupid ignorant arse! I'm going to jam a pear in your stupid dog's mouth and open it until his jaw cracks in half! You don't know! You don't know about anything!"  
>"That's enough." Mycroft said softly. Sherlock and John didn't hear him walk in the room. Sherlock turned to him.<p>

"Yes, I do believe we've had enough time with Mr. Moran." Sherlock swept out of the room.

Sebastian fell silent at the sight of Mycroft. John looked back at him once more and caught sight of Sebastian's face. He was distraught. The anger had waned down to next to nothing and he looked exhausted. He tried desperately to force a hard expression on his face, but it would not stay. John shook his head. He would never understand how Sebastian found Moriarty appealing, but he could understand that feeling of this genius getting wrapped up in his own deal, desperate to prove himself—and getting himself killed.

Sometimes John hated being so damned empathetic.

"So, I found a place." Sherlock said, hands clasped behind his back, walking briskly down the hallway. He walked just a little bit slower so that John could keep up with his limp.

"I'm sorry?" John said jerking from his thoughts.

"A flat. For us. I found one. Or rather, I was offered a great deal for one." It was just like Sherlock to change the subject completely. John had to sometimes felt like he was on a ride that whipped back and forth when it came to Sherlock's mind.

"You were offered a deal? Why?"

"A few years ago when I was heavily using the drug, I helped out this woman. Domestic violence case, terrible. I hardly even remembered it, but she remembered it. She wants to know if I'd like to come and see about a flat above hers. She'd be the landlady. Mrs. Hudson is her name."

"Oh. Well it's nice to know that your puzzles have some merit." John said.

"They certainly do at times." Sherlock and John walked out to the street and John hailed down the taxi. John struggled to get inside the car. Sherlock slid in next to him.

"I've seen photographs of the place, and I think it looks just good enough. There's perfect amount of space, though really no good spot to keep the chemistry set." Sherlock mused. In all their time together, they had never really found a place that really felt like home. They were always bouncing between his mother's home and Mycroft's flat. Neither were really home. John was hoping that this new flat could possibly be that home that he was searching for with Sherlock.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

Sherlock smiled and replied,

"221B Baker street."

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><p><strong>aw look at that address look at that beautiful address isn't it lovely and wonderful<strong>

**sebastian moran you and your temper sebastian**

**review please!**


	47. Chapter 47

The warning sirens blared as Sebastian bolted across the grounds. He huffed as his long legs bounded across the moor. Things were going so smoothly up until then. His cell doors had just opened, a guard escorting him to an open door before turning around and walking away. His face was completely obscured. Sebastian took this as an opportunity. He had no idea what he should do, he didn't have a plan. He had been stuck in that godforsaken prison for a month and things were getting worse. He never said a word to Mycroft. He kept his complete silence despite the slaps to the face and the uncomfortable closeness.

Now he was sprinting in the night, a car running with the passenger door open. Sebastian ran into it, closing the door. The driver peeled away from the side and drove away, the sirens getting quieter and quieter in the distance.

"You're lucky. I just used my last contacts to bust you out."

"Thank you for that." Sebastian muttered, stripping himself and changing into a t-shirt and a loose pair of jeans. "Won't Sherlock find out about your this little stunt?"

"They were about to find out soon enough anyway, I could feel the suspicion start to boil. I figured that it was time for me to get out of there anyway."

"Well… thanks for spending your greatest asset on me." he wiped his hand over his dirty-blonde stubble.

"I would say 'No problem' but it was kind of a problem."

"Are you certain that they suspected you? I mean, Jim went through a great deal of trouble to frame that Wallace kid." He said, slipping a jacket on.

"Yeah. But he was so obviously placed as a possible threat what with following John around all the time in his training." Irene said, rolling her eyes. "He told me about that. It sort of made me laugh. I don't understand why Sherlock would suspect a tail on John. Why would Jim want a tail on John? It doesn't make any sense. That Milo kid is as innocent as he looks."

"You became friends with him, though, didn't you?"

"Seb, I can become friends with anyone that I needed to. At first I befriended him to see if he knew anything at all about Moriarty. He really seemed completely clueless about Moriarty. That makes me think that he was the decoy for me. Convenient, isn't it?" Irene nearly purred.

"I don't know, we didn't exactly talk about you two."

"Yeah, He never really talked to you about business, did he?" Irene chuckled. "He had you for a fuck, didn't he?"

"It was more than that." Seb hissed.

"Jeez, man, calm down." Irene replied. "I'm sorry."

"He said that he had an inside man." Sebastian shrugged. "And he would talk about Milo Wallace sometimes. That's all I got out."

"He probably kept things from you in case you were caught and tortured." Irene said. "It makes sense."

Sebastian's glared at Irene but then fell silent. The car was quiet for some time.

"Do you think he's dead?"

Irene paused for a while and murmured. "Yeah. That's another reason while I'm leaving. I think when he died; he would make Sherlock believe that he was still alive. I think it would be one last torture, you know? Make Sherlock anticipate for his whole life. It makes perfect sense."

"He wouldn't go down like that." Sebastian murmured. "He would take Sherlock down at all costs. He wouldn't just explode himself. He would make certain that he dragged Sherlock down with him. No. He's alive. He's still alive."

Irene gave him a side-glance and turned away.

"If that's what you think Seb." She said quietly. She reached down in her bag and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sebastian's eyes widened and he reached for them.

"Thanks." He said. He lit one quickly and sucked in the clouded calm. He exhaled slowly as he reveled in the smoke. He had been offered cigarettes in exchange for information, but he had declined the offer every time. Being able to smoke a cigarette opened his mind and made him think about whom it was he really hated. He was upset over Jim's abandonment, but he couldn't blame Jim for leaving. Sebastian knew the type of person that Jim was. He couldn't expect anything more from that type of personality. He wanted something to hate. He needed to kill something.

"I'm going to kill him." Sebastian muttered as he shook the ash off the end of the cigarette. "I'm going to make him pay."

Irene laughed and turned to look at Sebastian. When she saw the serious look in his eyes, she frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Are you stupid?"

"No. I'm angry. And he's the one who brought all of this on me. He's a cocky son of a bitch and I'll kill him."

Irene looked at Sebastian incredulously. When Sebastian didn't elaborate, she sighed pointedly.

"Look. If you really do believe that Moriarty is alive, then what do you think he'll do if he finds out that you killed Sherlock? He will gut you, Sebastian, and you know it. He wants Sherlock to die by his hand. Don't take that from him."

"I'll kill the doctor then." He said flippantly. "Jim wouldn't care."

"No… but Sherlock would." Irene said slowly.

"That's sort of the point, sweetheart." Sebastian chuckled as he lit another cigarette. Irene hesitated before speaking again in a low, serious tone.

"You never really met Sherlock. You weren't in his circle. He… The love that those two share… if altered in any way, it could be incredibly destructive. If you kill John Watson…" Irene laughed nervously at the thought of it. "He would find you in less than a week no matter how far you ran."

"He doesn't have it in him to kill anyone." Sebastian said. His voice was a little wary.

Irene shook her head. "He would kill you, Sebastian. He's Moriarty if you tweak him a bit. He would cut you open without a second thought."

Sebastian pursed his lips. He rolled his eyes and sighed pointedly.

"I have to do _something. _I can't do nothing, it's frustrating."

"You don't have Jim to protect you anymore. If you want to kill someone, go ahead. You'll be caught and then sent away. If you want my advice, I'd suggest that you stay low. If you really think that Moriarty is alive, then he will find us. He let us live for a reason. I'm certain that we'll be useful in some way."

"I thought you thought he was dead."

"I do." Irene shrugged. "But I have to keep up some hope, you know? I gathered a lot of useful information while working for him. Now it's time to go utilize it."

"What do you plan on doing?"

"What I know best." Irene smirked.

"Nagging?" Sebastian joked. Irene hit him.

"No! Sex, you idiot." She smiled as she tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel. "I'm not going into porn, really… I'm not very interested in actually having sex with people. What do you think about me becoming a dominatrix?"

"I mean, I met you about two hours ago, and I think it fits. You have an overbearing personality and a strong voice. I'm certain you would do splendidly." Sebastian's voice was half-sarcastic. He wasn't too certain about Irene. He didn't like spies, even if Irene was on his side. She was on his side for now. It was difficult for Sebastian to like someone whose loyalty could be purchased.

"What did he promise you?"

"Well… when I first met him, he promised that I would never have to be homeless again. He set up a bank account for me and gave me a debit card. At first it was just a couple thousand. Every time I told him something, I got the amount of money that the information was worth. I'm a millionaire now." She grinned at him. "What did he leave you?"

"My life, I guess." He mumbled. "He never told me about anything he wanted me to have. He was never sentimental."

"Rough luck." She said, shrugging. "Maybe you can get an apartment or something."

Sebastian fell completely silent. He didn't talk again. Did Jim really see him as a thing that could be thrown away and forgotten? He'd allowed Irene to live—at first Sebastian thought that she was allowed to live because Jim wanted someone to get him out of prison. Now he wasn't so sure. Was he really so worthless?

For now he would wait it out. He would go back to that warehouse in Wales and start there. Irene could get him a fake identity. Maybe he would get a job. Maybe he would have to pay rent. He would wait for Jim for his whole life if he had to.

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><p><strong>Sebastian is out. Irene is the traitor. <strong>

**I set Milo up, everyone. **

**review please!**


	48. Chapter 48

The hot wind stung as it swept up sand and got into John's exposed wounds. He had to patrol the area before he could give the all-clear and let his men come through. He could hear Milo asking him questions on the intercom, but John silenced it. He held his gun aloft and scanned the area. It would be perfect for a guerilla attack.

John checked around the skeletons of these buildings, coming to the final one. Standing in the middle was a man with bombs strapped to his chest. His back was to John. John demanded that he turn around and show himself. The man put his hands up and turned slowly around.

It was Sherlock, his eyes blazing with regret and tears. He had the switch in his hand, his thumb hovering over a button. John lowered his gun and tried to reason with Sherlock, but Sherlock couldn't hear him through all of his layers of protective gear. Sherlock only said two words before the world ripped itself apart.

"John. Run."

John watched in absolute horror as Sherlock was ripped apart, blood splattering his clothes, the air smoky. Though he was now certainly dead, Sherlock's blood-curdling shrieks rang throughout the entire desert. The rest of his men came in after him and one by one they all exploded. Bombs everywhere, they were all bombs. No one was safe. Everyone was a potential bomb. He tried to get away, he tried to run or hide but he was trapped by the noises, the inhuman gurgling of Sherlock choking on his own blood mixed with his shrieking pain, John crying out for help, for someone to help him. He cried for Sherlock to stop screaming. He heard a violin start to play… softly at first until it built up a calm inside John. The violin was sweet and sad and it quieted the screams and the world on fire. It was soon the only thing that John could hear and he laid himself down to rest.

John's eyes fluttered open gently. They were caked with dried tears. He sighed and threw his head back, trying to hold back his tears again. These nightmares. They were getting worse. He tried to control himself, he hated waking Sherlock up in the middle of the night like this with his thrashing and his crying. He looked to the foot of the bed and Sherlock stood there with his violin between his chin and his shoulders, his eyes closed, pulling out a melody for John. John could hear it. Sherlock was begging John to feel happier, he wanted nothing but John to have a peaceful sleep and he worried about him. John tried to smile but just fell back down on the bed and curled up. He was too frightened to go back to sleep, though Sherlock's melody was helping to calm his racing heart. The tune ended on a low note and Sherlock placed his violin down on the chair in the corner of the room.

They had moved into 221B Baker street about two months ago and John couldn't ask for a better home. It had already started to feel like home and he and Sherlock put their own touches on it. Mrs. Hudson was the sweetest woman and often came up from time to time to have a chat. John had thought that Sherlock would just brush her off as no one but he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company and he almost treated her like family. The first time that John had a nightmare, she came running up the stairs, genuinely concerned for his health. She made him tea and had a long chat about how she used to have nightmares that of her husband coming back to hurt her. John appreciated her so much more than she may even understand. Every now and again when John had sincerely terrible nightmares, she would come up the stairs and wordlessly make him a cup of tea. This place was home.

Sherlock crawled into bed with John, and forced him to sit up. Neither of them said anything. Sherlock took John's wrists, and John couldn't look him in the eye. Sherlock stared at him through his eyelashes until John turned his head. The moment that John caught his eyes, he would usually shed a tear or two. John hated his weakness. John hated these dreams. The explosions in Afghanistan and the explosions in the Ink factory melted together in a hellish perversion of a nightmare. He had seen Afghanistan and London as completely different universes, but when the bombs started going off here, where Sherlock was…. The dreams wouldn't let him go now. They were relentless.

Sherlock would stare at John in the eye for several long minutes as John would cry as silently as possible. This procedure sometimes ended up with John bawling into Sherlock's shoulder and grabbing onto him desperately. Tonight, John shed a couple of silent tears and closed his eyes. Sherlock would kiss him on the forehead, cheeks, nose and lips. He would hold John's head steady in his hands until John was done crying completely and stand up to retrieve his violin.

And then Sherlock would play until John fell asleep again.

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><p>John sat on the chair facing the window. Rain pattered on the street below. Sherlock stared out of the window listlessly plucking his violin strings. He thumbed a letter absentmindedly. Irene had been so kind as to send them a letter. John had been relieved that Milo had been innocent all this time, but Sherlock had been so upset that he now refused to call Irene by her name. She was now simply 'That Woman' or 'The Woman'. John imagined that Sherlock was simply in shock that there was someone else out there that was able to fool him.<p>

The letter read:

_Dear Sherlock and John,_

_ It was me the whole time. Oops. I figured that I should leave before you find me out using your own resources. I thought that you had started to suspect me but it turns out that you still imagined Milo to be the traitor. Moriarty went through a lot of trouble to make you suspect Milo. Though, seriously Sherlock? Falling for that bait? It was too easy. _

_ Moriarty approached me a month before your arrival at the rehab. He paid me an awful lot of money. I agreed and you never suspected a thing. I was worried that you would catch on during the early stages, but you were too far down in your cravings that you never noticed my slip-ups. I'm grateful for it. _

_After you got John back, that's when he really activated me. He would call me and ask me if I could get away. Of course I could get away, it was so easy to now you were distracted with John. I was completely disregarded even though I shared a hotel room with you. He told me exactly what I should do to get the information from you and I did just that. You never noticed. I got myself a girlfriend so you could explain away my absence. Poor old Molly Hooper is such a lovely girl. I'm sorry that I used her in that way. If you could explain to her why I've left so suddenly, that would be kind of you. _

_I figured that Sebastian would make a good ally. I retrieved him using the last of my contacts in the prison. We're both gone. Don't expect this letter to tell you my location. I emailed it to one of my friends in America and had her mail it to you. Of course, there wouldn't really be any need to track me down, would there? What would you do with me? Wag your finger? _

_To be entirely honest… not all of it was a lie. I meant what I said about you two. Your love is beautiful. I reasoned Sebastian out of killing John. Moriarty never asked about his plane. I don't know if I would be able to tell him the truth anyway. I was really interested in meeting John. I'm glad that I did meet you, John. After seeing you two together… it was almost impossible to want to see you split. _

_Almost. There is always a price. _

_Perhaps we'll meet again, Sherlock. Perhaps we'll cross paths in the future. Until then, my dearest roommate._

_Irene Adler_

When Sherlock read the letter first, John could see a mixture of anger and admiration flicker through his expressions before he put it down and walked away. Now he won't mention the contents of the letter, but he compulsively folded and unfolded it, never looking at the words on the paper. John stared at Sherlock for a while.

"What are we supposed to do now?" John asked quietly. Sherlock turned towards him. He placed the letter down on the table next to him. Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

"We wait." Sherlock continued plucking the strings. "I hit him pretty hard. It'll be years before he recovers from my blow. We wait for him to rise again. And then I'll take him down. Permanently." Sherlock stated as though it was a fact. Thunder grumbled in the distance and Sherlock brought his violin to his chin.

"Wait? Sherlock, we're going to wait for him?"

"I'm certain that we can get in all sorts of trouble in the meantime." Sherlock smiled. He raised his bow and started playing sweet music. This, at least, was true. Lestrade had called them every other day to consult with Sherlock on certain cases. He had helped willingly, and with great enthusiasm. He left occasionally, sometimes with John. Sometimes he left John at home by himself. John was nearly over his limp, but he still had some difficulty with running. He loved accompanying Sherlock on cases, so he would go as often as he could, but sometimes he would have to rest. He looked at Sherlock, so invested in the music, complementing it to the low rumbles of thunder.

John stood with great difficulty and limped to the nearest window. The rain was falling in spots. Thunder rumbled in the distance. John swallowed as his heart started to race. Sherlock's music was a beautiful background, but the storm that was coming looked like it was going to be incredibly nasty.

When he was a kid, John used to think that the lightning and the thunder were fighting. The rain was the result of their fight, the produce of their anger. In the end, neither Lighting nor Thunder could win, and all that was left was the rain, drowning the plants and drenching the town. All that was left was the damage that their fight caused.

The sky above them now was overcast and harmless, but the black clouds in the distance were blowing towards the city. John could hear the impending storm, its terrible thunder muffled from the distance. He could see lighting strike outside the city. He knew that it would be here in a few hours and dump buckets of water and blow around their flat. Now, the rain was soft and gentle, but it was still rain. Now, the winds were whispers, but soon they would be screams.

He knew that the approaching storm was inevitable and that it would be devastating, but for now they were safe. For now they were together.

Sherlock hung up the phone. John had barely noticed Sherlock talking. Sherlock smirked at him.

"That was Lestrade." He snatched up his jacket and scarf. "You know those serial suicides? There's been a fourth. And now…" He turned up his collar, positively beaming. "… there's a note."

_The End_

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><p><strong><strong>Woah, I don't know what to do now that I've finished this story I've spent a good portion of three months putting it all together<strong>**

**I wanted to leave it open-ended like that. I sort of wanted to end this story where the canon story began. John with a limp, having nightmares. Sherlock consulting with Lestrade over cases. Moriarty not being an immediate threat. Mrs. Hudson and her cuteness. Also how'd you like that nice little metaphor I ended with? John/Metaphors otp. Well for this story at least. I've had that one in mind for a while anyway, whatever. **

**This is probably one of the first times I've been consistent with simultaneously posting chapters and writing this story. I finished writing it on the 23rd of February. I would like to pat myself on the back for actually _finishing _a story. Thank you all so much for reading Together, I really do hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**


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